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Her Own Devices 



\ 


pioneer Series 


Her Own Devices 



C. G. Compton 



Edward Arnold 
70, Fifth Avenue 
1896 


Qr, 3lV’- 


Copyright, 1896, 

By Edward Arnold. 


SSntberssits ^Sresg : 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 


Her Own Devices 


CHAPTEE I 

The young woman who swung into the glow- 
ing heat of the Circus Eoad, on a day of a 
recent July, met three persons. 

The gentleman who had lost his way 
while looking for a house thought that she 
was a fine girl, spoilt by red hair; the lady, 
calling in St. John’s Wood, remembered the 
reputation of the district, but noticing a 
brick-red bow on a blue skirt, condemned 
herself as uncharitable ; the young man from 
Mills & Parker, general drapers, hesitated 
between nodding, and bowing to a bargain 
customer. Miss Susan Stanier foresaw his 
hesitation, and passed him rather too uncon- 
sciously. 

Susan’s air, dress, gait, looks, and figure 
were challenging. A tall figure, set off by 
a brown jacket, with waistcoat bodice of blue 
check on buff, a brown skirt, and a sailor’s 
1 


2 


HER OWN DEVICES 


hat and a veil to keep off the sun, which had 
splashed the pink of her complexion as if it 
had been dredged with bran. She walked 
quickly, though with a slight drag in her 
stride, nursed her parasol after the fashion of 
a past day, and kept on the shady side, so 
that she would not have to put up the parasol. 
As she passed across the gaps in the shade 
thrown by garden limes, the sombre red of 
her hair glowed like fused metal, and the 
next moment sank into massive sumptuous 
shadows. 

It had been said that she had the air of 
having refused diamonds. The phrase had 
pleased her, till she asked herself whether 
the merit of the refusal outweighed having 
provoked the offer. She hated the phraser, 
and maintained her expression. 

At the point where the fare to Charing 
Cross is lowest she took the omnibus, riding 
outside to see the shops and people generally 
and passing friends. A lady outside a re- 
turning omnibus waved a limp brown - 
paper-covered booklet at Susan, who smiled 
congratulations. 

“ So she ’s got the part. A long tour just 
after a good London engagement, ” thought 


HER OWN DEVICES 


3 


Susan. At Piccadilly she took a scrap of 
paper out of her glove, and read her own notes 
of the day's plans. The first one was 
theatre, " vague to give no information to 
the casual finder she was haunted by, and 
precise enough to arouse an uncertain memory. 
She waited at the theatre for an hour and a 
quarter, three-quarters of an hour at the stage- 
door, half an hour in front. Then she was 
told that the manager would be back in about 
an hour or so. She left word that she would 
return, and then set off to lunch at an Italian 
caf^ a few doors off, where, perhaps, she 
might meet some professional friends released 
from rehearsal. No one was there except the 
eternal domino-players. Giuseppe Joe, the 
Anglo-Italian waiter, received her gracefully, 
regretting that she had just missed the dark 
lady who came last time, and Mr. Falconer, 
and Mr. Porter. Mr. Porter was very funny ; 
he had broken another wine-glass trying the 
same trick as the other day. The macaroni 
was ready, but he advised the cutlets and a 
salad. Susan had the macaroni, because it 
cost less, and she was by herself, and could 
save without being noticed. But it was 
deadly dull in this stale cafd with no one to 


4 


HER OWN DEVICES 


talk to, and only the click of the dominoes on 
the marble slab to break the silence. It was 
sickening work running about after engage- 
ments and not getting them, and not even 
seeing a soul to hear what was going on. 
This was July, nearly the end, and since 
October she had been at work seven weeks, 
including rehearsals. She was quite as 
pretty or handsome, which ever you like, as 
half-a-dozen girls who were always in engage- 
ment. Every one said so; and as for the 
acting, she knew she was quite as good. A 
bit rusty perhaps, but that would wear off in 
a night or two. Only about two years ago 
she had been at one theatre for more than 
eighteen months, and played ingenues in two 
successes; and met jolly people, and saved 
money as well. That was a good time. She 
had come to consider it as the highest point 
of her career, and the best time she had yet 
scored. Everything was right then. One of 
papa’s companies had succeeded, and he had 
given her pocket-money and good advice about 
saving, which, from a company promoter, was 
valuable. And actually they had given a 
party at ' The Eetreat, ’ not a grand affair, 
but something that could be called an At 


HER OWN DEVICES 


5 


Home, was printed on cards, and mentioned 
in Smart People. 

And besides, there were other things, 
things she would never forget; but she 
did n’t want to think about them. It did no 
good. It was past and done with and for- 
gotten or, better still, not known; all the 
same, it had been vivid and, and — it was 
difficult to find the right word — and deli- 
cious and dangerous. 

She looked again at the scrap of paper. 
Hair-pins — cleaner’s (three pairs) — and so 
on, and B. L. Clearly some one’s initials, 
ingeniously reversed. Lucien Bewick, of 
course. Susan meant to have called on him 
earlier, and if she did not go at once, he 
would have left his office. After all it was 
business, too, and she would be at the theatre 
in time if she was quick and took a ’bus 
each way. In a few minutes she was stand- 
ing in a street connecting the Strand to the 
Embankment, and was watching a window 
on the first floor of the house opposite. 

The street had been suddenly brought into 
publicity by one of the improvements which 
have made London look like a hospital for 
mutilated thoroughfares. The upper part 


6 


HER OWN DEVICES 


had long ignored a Strand degenerate from 
early Victorian decorum, the lower part pro- 
tested like Modesty Outraged. If the feel- 
ings had their expression, so had the intel- 
lect. Speaking for the street it said plainly, 
if you knew the language, We know our 
position is illogical; we know that we are 
absurd, unrelated, and out of harmony with 
those vulgar foreign hotels, and those bar- 
racks they call mansions. It is not our fault. 
You let the daylight in on us. You are this 
sort of people who would wake the Sleeping 
Beauty with an electric current and an arc 
lamp. That seems funny to you. We think 
it rude, but we are helpless. Let our leases 
fall in!” 

Miss Stanier expressed the same idea by 
saying that York Place was hung up. She 
had been there before; she knew the spot 
that gave a view into the room on the first 
floor where, through the worn dulling of the 
further window, Lucien Bewick could be 
seen at his desk. He was the junior work- 
ing partner of Philipson, Thorn & Barlow, 
architects and surveyors, whose name in thin 
white letters on a black ground appeared on 
the pillars of the doorway. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


7 


Mr. Bewick was not in view. Perhaps he 
had gone ; it was late for him to be at the 
office on a Saturday. There was no hat on 
the rail behind the desk, still that was not 
conclusive. She walked to the Embankment, 
came back, looked in, and saw a gentleman 
standing at the desk. She crossed at once 
before he could see her, entered, and ran 
up the stairs, and breathlessly asked the 
articled pupil, who had been kept hours 
after his right time, and had lost his train 
and his temper, whether Mr. Bewick had 
gone. 

" He ’s here, ” said the young man as it 
occurred to him that he had seen this lady 
before, and that she, and not pressure, was 
the reason he had been kept so late. Men 
had done such things. He had lost the 
match of the season, and he felt like bowling 
to-day. 

'' Will you give him my card, if you 
please ? ” said Miss Stanier, who was fond 
of leaving cards with her name rather larger 
than is usual. They get seen, and seeing is 
talking, and talking is advertisement. 

The gentleman took the card into the other 
room ; in a few minutes he returned with a 


8 


HER OWN DEVICES 


much improved manner, as cheerful as Ariel 
after liberation. 

‘‘ Let me give you a chair, Miss Stanier. 
Mr. Bewick will see you at once. I ’ll just 
take him these papers first, ” he said, revers- 
ing his instructions. He blew down a tube, 
blew up the man at the other end for not 
answering quicker than sound travels, and 
ordered a fast hansom, '' not the donkey bath- 
chair sort you got me last time ; and fetch 
my bag, Perkins, and hurry up for the Lord’s 
sake ! ” Then he opened drawers swiftly, 
took out plans and drawings, shut and locked 
desk and drawers. 

Excuse me. Important appointment, ” 
he said, flying into the next room. ‘‘ I 
thought I ’d bring these in first, in case you 
had anything to ask about them,” he said, 
putting the papers on the desk. 

“ Thank you, Stapleton, I know all I want 
to. Ask the lady in now. You ’ve scarcely 
time to catch your train. Good-bye. Hope 
you ’ll win. ” 

To load Perkins with a big cricket-bag, 
show Miss Stanier in, and lock up the office, 
was for Stapleton the work of seconds. In 
sight of the clock tower showing two minutes 


HER OWN DEVICES 


9 


to spare, he blessed Bewick for letting him 
off, and determined to make his married 
sister, Annie, send Mrs. Bewick a heap of 
roses. Mrs. Bewick was awfully fond of 
flowers, and the nicest woman he knew ; and 
her complexion was just like that new rose 
Annie’s husband thought such a lot of, cool, 
shelly pink. Perhaps that was the reason 
they called her Eose. A South-Western van 
blocking the road interrupted his reflections 
and threw him into a fever of apprehension, 
but in the end he saved the train, and helped 
to beat a team with two county men in it. 

" Have I interrupted you, Mr. Bewick ? ” 
said Susan, after shaking hands. Ought n’t 
I to have come ? What a blaze of light ! I 
must put my umbrella up. I can’t stand 
this. ” 

“ Put it up by all means, ” said Mr. Bewick. 

So she sat with her dull red sunshade 
between her and the window. 

"We ’re being done up, you see. Ho cur- 
tains, no carpets, and so on. We go to 
Westport on Monday, I ’m glad to say. ” 

" You look as if you wanted a rest,” said 
Susan, who had been watching Lucien’s 
delicate features, and had noticed his har- 


10 


HER OWN DEVICES 


assed expression. " You work too hard. 
Why does n’t the other partner do some- 
thing ? ” 

'' Mr Philipson ’s eighty, and past work. ” 
Not past interfering. Why does n’t he 
let you run the whole thing ? ” said Susan. 

'' It ’s his business, you see. Mr. Lloyd 
and I are juniors only,” replied Lucien, 
smiling. “ And old people like to keep 
power ; it ’s only natural. ” 

“ You ’re too charitable or too philosophi- 
cal, Mr. Bewick. You ’ll overwork yourself 
at last, and fade away all of a sudden. If I 
was a man I would — ” 

You would act as a man, not as a woman, ” 
said Bewick simply. 

He had an air, trick, or manner of detach- 
ment which annoyed and attracted Susan. 

Am I wasting your time ? ” she asked. 

Ought n’t you to be helping Mrs. Bewick 
to pack ? ” 

“ Mrs. Bewick is n’t packing. Horace 
Shepherd and Elgin Welford have taken her 
to see that new Frenchman’s pictures, and 
afterwards to musical tea in Bond Street. ” 

“ Tea and music both bad, total result 
rather jolly, ” replied Susan. “ Mr. Shepherd 


HER OWN DEVICES 


11 


is a great friend of Mrs. Bewick’s, isn’t 
he?” 

" He ’s an old friend of mine, ” said Bewick ; 
and says he only forgave me for marrying 
because it was Eose. ” 

Pretty of him, but not a new reason for 
not marrying himself. Who is Mr. Wel- 
f ord ? ” 

'' A nice youth Eose met at a dance last 
year. They are great friends now,” said 
patient Mr. Bewick. 

Mr. Bewick, do you like walking- 
sticks ? ” asked Susan. 

Yes, I do ; but I ’m rather fastidious 
about them ; so if you ’re going to provide 
me with one, you ’d better let me choose it 
myself, ” said Lucien. Susan looked at him 
inquiringly, and smiled slowly. If the lines 
of her mouth had been rendered geometrically, 
the upper lip would have formed the apex 
and two sides of an irregular triangle. Con- 
sequently, the mouth was rarely quite closed, 
and now, as she smiled reflectively, it seemed 
the most important feature of the face. 

Now I must go to the theatre,” declared 
Susan abruptly, though she had carefully 
thought the matter over. " Cheniston ’s sure 


12 


HER OWN DEVICES 


not to be there; but he might, you know, 
and I don’t want to miss a chance, even if 
it ’s only a summer season and summer prices. 
May I come back ? You won’t be gone in 
half-an-hour, will you ? ” 

“ I must be here some time yet, ” said 
Lucien. See, ” and he held up a lot of 
papers and plans, '' I pay for my holiday in 
advance. ” 

'' May I leave my cloak here, ” asked 
Susan, closing her sunshade, and rising. 
She stood in profile to him, but it only re- 
vived his old impression that her profile was 
fairly good, nothing out of the way. The 
curve of the nose was either too much or too 
little. 

Of course you may, ” he said, taking the 
cloak from her, and hanging it over two 
pegs. '' The loop ’s broken, ” he explained. 

Just as I started,” said Susan, vexed. 

Her heels clattered on the bare floor as she 
walked to the door followed by Lucien. The 
mid-summer sun blazed into the naked room. 
Against the wall leant carpets in rolls; at 
the end of the passage was a stack of planks 
and ladders. 

At the theatre Susan was told that the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


13 


manager would write to her. She knew 
what that meant. It did not bother her. 
She was too busy thinking about Lucien 
Bewick. Eyan Legard, the light comedian, 
had introduced them about two years ago. 
Lucien had attracted her by not trying to. 
She had sung in a cantata of his, and had 
been at every practice. It was a nuisance 
having to be so particular about time and 
pitch, still it had brought them together, and 
enabled her to cultivate a friendship with 
Mrs. Bewick, which would be useful later. 
They knew a great many people of a good 
sort. Yet she and Lucien were scarcely 
more than ordinary acquaintances. They got 
on very well together, though he didn’t seem 
to care whether he saw her once a week or 
once a month. At first she suspected that he 
did this on purpose, now she was convinced 
that it was genuine. That was just like 
him. His simplicity made the real thing as 
effectual as the cleverest imitation. 

She liked to analyse her friends, to cata- 
logue their personal qualities, to make an 
inventory of their distinctive peculiarities. 
She had done this with Lucien a long time 
ago, but to-day she felt more than ever inter- 


14 


HER OWN DEVICES 


ested in him. She knew he must be thirty- 
five, that he had been married five years, and 
was a satisfactory husband. He was good- 
looking enough, though no maiden’s dream 
of romantic lover. He was fair and tall and 
biggish, of a gracious amplitude, not suggest- 
ing fairs and phenomena. Susan liked her 
men friends large. She liked them also to 
do all the usual athletic things. In this, 
too, Lucien, who had boated, and cricketed, 
and played the Eugby game at Oxford, satis- 
fied demands which Susan thought original. 
So reviving his image, recalling his quiet 
tones, considerate manner, and irritating 
seriousness, she walked slowly along the 
Embankment towards his office. 

As a matter of fact, Lucien Bewick was 
Susan Stanier’s first experience of a class she 
had always looked up to, and though she 
would not own it, had always envied, and 
had resolved to know and to belong to. 

She went up York Place on the side oppo- 
site to Philipson, and watched Lucien, as 
she had often watched him before. When he 
leant over the desk, only his fair head could 
be seen; when he leant back reading some 
paper, she had a profile view of a short 


HER OWN DEVICES 


15 


whisker and a thick moustache. He went 
on working as if there was no Susan Stanier 
in the world, and no Susan Stanier ’s cloak 
behind him. His persistence in dull work 
was of a piece with the orderly home life ; 
the patient waiting for what could not be 
hurried, which contrasted haughtily with 
Susan’s life of hurry and uncertainty and 
petty excitement. 

Eose Bewick was awfully lucky, with a 
lovely flat and lots of friends, and a husband 
like Lucien, who liked her to enjoy herself 
in her own way, and only chaffed her about 
her men friends. 

She, Susan, did not, and never would, be- 
lieve that Eose was so popular only because 
she was frank and sweet and sincere. If she 
had, and kept, such a lot of men friends, she 
must do it by flirting. It was the only way ; 
every one knew that except Lucien, who 
slaved all day and composed music in the 
evening. 

At this point Susan found that she had 
attracted undesired attention. It was her 
rule never to get observed. Caution was a 
first and a second nature with her. 

Directly she noticed the servants looking 


16 


HER OWN DEVICES 


out of the top window of the private hotel, 
she took her own card out of her purse, read 
it carefully, looked at the numbers of the 
houses near her, and then crossed and went 
quickly into Lucien’s office, which she knew 
could not be seen from the hotel. “ At last ! ” 
she exclaimed gaily. " Tired of waiting, 
Mr. Bewick ? ” 

Lucien looked at her, with his mind full 
of figures and dimensions. 

'' Oh, Miss Stanier ! I have not been 
waiting for any one ; I Ve been working well 
and quickly, as I always do when the place 
is quiet. Did n’t you leave something here 
— a cloak, wasn’t it? Here it is.” He 
handled the cloak as one who has a wife. 
“Isn’t it hot?” said Susan, holding the 
cloak as if it was a duster. “ The hottest day 
we ’ve had. ” 

“ July is hot, you know, ” replied Mr. 
Bewick ; “ hut to-day ’s only seventy -eight 
or seventy-nine in the shade. It ’s been more 
than that several days, ” he continued, look- 
ing at the thermometer on his desk. 

“ The wind ’s so burning, ” said Susan. 

“ It ’s due north to-day, ” replied Bewick. 

“ Mr. Bewick, I would like to sit down. ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


17 


Eeally, I beg your pardon, I thought you 
were going. ” 

“ Shall I be in your way ? ” 

‘‘ Not a bit. I can go on working just the 
same. You won’t crackle papers ? ” 

I have n’t any. ” 

‘‘ Here ’s a book, that ’s quieter, Za Char- 
treuse de Parme, You read French ? ” 

Susan nodded as to a superfluous question. 
She read the first paragraph to herself, and 
wondered what on earth it meant. Some- 
thing about Buonaparte and Milan and Lodi. 
Who or what was Lodi, and, for the matter 
of that, who was Stendhal or Beyle ? She 
had never heard of him. Bewick was writ- 
ing at a great pace. This was n’t Susan’s 
programme at all. 

'' Mr. Bewick, I should like some tea, ” 
sh6 said prettily. 

Bewick looked at his watch, and went into 
the other room and rang a bell. 

“ You don’t mind waiting five minutes? ” 
he said, resuming his writing. 

'' Not at all, ” replied Susan, but he did 
not hear. He was absorbed, and Susan’s 
poor voice was not of the sort to divert 
a busy man. Her voice annoyed her. It 
2 


18 


HER OWN DEVICES 


did n’t suit her appearance in any respect. 
It should have been sweet or rich, instead of 
either toneless or shrill. She watched 
Bewick working strenuously, impassively. 
She rather hoped he would make faces and 
talk to himself, but he worked on with 
the calm of a seraph. So she studied his 
features, the way he did his hair, which 
she wanted to smooth, and the form of his 
neck -tie. 

The five minutes is gone, ” said Susan. 

‘‘ And the housekeeper, ” said Bewick. '' If 
she doesn’t come in five minutes, she ’s gone 
out. No tea, I ’m sorry to say. ” 

This, also, was not Susan’s programme. 

‘'We could get some tea outside at 
Bridge’s, you know,” she said. 

“ Do you want it very much ? ” he ex- 
claimed. “ What an idiot I am ! You 
don’t mind waiting, do you? I sha’n’t be 
long. ” 

On he went again, putting the work first. 
In a few minutes he had finished, and locked 
up his desk, after putting a long envelope 
full of papers into his pocket, so that it 
bulged out. 

“ That won’t do,” said Susan. “It looks 


HER OWN DEVICES 


19 


awful. Put it in the tail-pocket. Is that 
my doing? Will you have to finish that 
while you ’re at Westport ? ” she asked as 
they went out. 

I am afraid I shall unless I do it to- 
morrow. ” 

'' Mrs. Bewick hates you to work on Sun- 
day, does n’t she ? ” continued Susan, de- 
lighted. She told me so. Don’t blame it 
on me, will you ? ” 

There will be no blaming, ” said Bewick. 
" I sha’n’t say more than the truth. ” 

'' Never obtrude the truth unnecessarily, ” 
replied Susan. '' That ’s a wise saying, isn’t 
it ? said by a wise man, too. ” 

“ Who was he. Miss Stanier ? ” 

'' A Spaniard, with a lovely sounding name 
— Balthasar Gracian, ” said Susan, making a 
shot. She had skimmed a notice of a maga- 
zine article on maxim writers. 

“ Then, ” said Bewick, " Balthasar Gracian 
was a liar.” 

'' All the same to oblige me, don’t say it 
was my fault, ” she urged, much amused. 

'' I won’t say anything about it, that ’s the 
simplest way. Where ’s your tea-shop. Miss 
Stanier ? ” 


20 


HER OH^H DEVICES 


“ Just near Eegent Street. Don’t let ’s go 
to Bridge’s; it’s dully respectable. The 
Polish cafd ’s the place this season. ” 

What news about your opera, Mr. 
Bewick, ” Susan asked, as they sat at a table 
in the Polish cafd. '' Are you going to give 
me an engagement ? ” She was pouring out 
the tea to show off hands as white as toilet 
cream could make them. They fluttered 
about the table incessantly, now poising 
insect-like over the sugar, then with Angers 
bent and separated hovering about the straw- 
berries, next drooping over the arm of the 
chair. The motive was eternal, the style 
antiquated, recalling the graces of a Book of 
Beauty. 

Mrs. Baumann has n’t got a theatre yet, ” 
said Bewick. “ I don’t think she ever will, 
and I ’m not sorry for what I ’ve seen of their 
way of treating music. ” 

If you ’re going to have anything to do 
with the stage, you must n’t be sensitive, Mr. 
Bewick,” said Susan. "Don’t give up! I 
was so glad when I heard they had accepted 
your opera. They ’ve engaged people already. 
Are you going to let me play the virtuous 
peasant girl ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


21 


'' She ’s a soprano. ” 

"So am I! You mustn't judge by my 
singing in the cantata. I had a cold all the 
time ; you know I had. Besides, I want 
an engagement awfully. Is n't it strange, 
Mr. Bewick, that I should have been out so 
long after being two years at the St. 
George's ? ” 

The St. George's theatre always made Miss 
Stanier sad and pathetic. Playing small 
parts in farces at a second-rate theatre had 
been her greatest achievement. 

" It was jolly there, " she said. " Margaret 
Coombe and Lena King in one room, Miriam 
Mallett dressed with me in the next. We 
had a great time, I can tell you. I was 
always late home ; it was convenient to wait 
for Miriam and take a Kilburn 'bus, and 
make the old joke about our ways parting at 
Hall Eoad. How many times we 've said 
that. It seems so long ago, so strange that 
it isn't going on now, or that it ever hap- 
pened. Where are the rains of yesteryear ? ” 

" Is n't it snows ? " asked Bewick. 

" Perhaps it is. It 's something to do with 
weather, I know," replied Susan, making a 
note of snows. " Anyhow, it 's all over. 


22 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Haseltine ’s a bankrupt, Miriam ’s married, 
and Butler Carstairs is a manager in Aus- 
tralia. ” 

'' Butler Carstairs ! was lie there ? ” 

“ Specially engaged for the last piece. 
Why ? ” 

“ Only that we used to hear so much of 
him, ” said Bewick. '' He was handsome, 
but not much of an actor, I thought. ” 

" People always say that of handsome men. 
Butler was a good sort, though, ” said Susan. 
“ Let 's go now, Mr. Bewick; I ’m tired of 
this. Will Eose be back ? I ’ll come on 
chance. She ’s discovered a shop where — 
but that ’s not for your ears. ” 

At the small flat near Victoria, where the 
Bewicks lived, they found that Mrs. Bewick 
had not returned. 

''We might have known that, ” exclaimed 
Bewick. "They wouldn’t have left the 
Gallery till after five. ” 

" I ought to have thought of that, ” said 
Susan. “ How stupid. ” 

"Oh, never mind; I’ll see you into a 
’bus,” said Bewick. 

" Mayn’t I come in, Mr. Bewick, and rest? 
Please ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


23 


‘‘Of course you may! Forgive my not 
asking. I didn’t think, you know.” 

They went into the quietly -furnished din- 
ing-room. 

“ Jolly room this,” said Susan, taking off 
her veil ; “ the sort of room that makes me 
feel better, morally — I mean. I like it 
better than the drawing-room, though that ’s 
awfully bright. One ’s Eose, and this other ’s 
you. ” 

“ Thanks ; but they ’re both Eose. That ’s 
me, ” he said, throwing open the door of a 
smaller room. 

“ How neat and orderly, to be sure 1 ” cried 
Susan. “ It makes one shudder. That ’s 
where you do your composing. Piano next 
to desk. How professional 1 ” She laughed 
at him in mockery. They were standing by 
the open door very close together. The 
smile stayed on her face, and he noticed for 
the first time the seaweed-green of her eyes. 
He must have examined thoroughly, for she 
exclaimed suddenly, “ What are you think- 
ing of, Mr. Bewick ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon. Your eyes reminded 
me of that movement in the second act. ” 
He picked it out on the piano. 


24 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Susan’s lips lost their sweet bow for a 
moment. He was too trying. She welcomed 
Sharpe, the attentive, with tea. 

We ’ve had tea, thanks, Sharpe — ” 

“ And we ’ll have some more, ” cut in 
Susan. 

Sharpe smiled sympathetically and handed 
the tea to Susan, who had taken Bewick’s 
arm-chair. 

“ It ’s not good for you two or three times 
a day, ” said Bewick, as Sharpe softly left the 
room. 

'' Whatever I like is good for me, ” she 
replied. '' Bread and butter, please, Lucien. ” 
She blushed readily. '' Mr. Bewick, I mean 
of course. ” 

He handed the bread and butter. 

You ’re welcome to the Lucien. It ’s not 
the first time, you know. ” 

''Eeally! Sometimes I don’t know what 
I say. Quick ! it will mark my dress. ” 

Some tea had fallen. Lucien applied his 
handkerchief. A cool, damp hand clasped 
his. 

" I want the handkerchief, Lucien, ” said 
Susan, a little late, and released his hand. 

She moved to pat the dress with the rolled- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


25 


up handkerchief, so that her curved profile 
and the droop of her neck filled Lucien's 
eyes. 

Thanks, Lucy. Did they call you Lucy 
at school ? ” 

Of course they did. ” 

'' Miss Lucy ? ” 

“ Not for long. ” 

'‘Why not?” 

" Well, I allowed Lucy, it ’s so obvious and 
irresistible ; but the other I barred. ” 

" Did you fight for it ? ” 

" Naturally. ” 

" Did you win always ? ” 

" No, of course not, but they weighed the 
risk. ” 

“Did you like being called by a girl’s 
name ? ” pursued Susan, stirring her tea, and 
watching Bewick. The lip bow had come 
back. 

“ It didn’t last; they gave us another. ” 

“ Us ? ” 

“ My pal and me ; they called us — ” 

“ Last and Loose,” said Susan. 

“ Yes ; Eose told you. ” 

“No, I guessed it. Who was Fast? ” 
Bewick did not answer for a moment. He 


26 


HER OWN DEVICES 


did not care to talk of Willie Eaynor at 
any time, and just now he liked it less than 
ever. 

I ’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t 
mind ? ” he said. 

I don’t mind,” said Susan. But I shall 
call you Luce. ” 

Bewick said he would call her Susan. 

I don’t see why you should have all that 
footstool,” exclaimed Susan. 

“ There ’s another by you. ” 

What ’s enough for one ’s enough for two. 
Besides, I like that best,” she persisted, 
darting out a foot, an ankle, and some stock- 
ing. She had turned the stool askew ; Bewick 
replaced it, planting a big foot on it. 

'' I ’ll let you have it without fighting for 
it, ” he said, wondering. 

''Let me have it ! ” she cried ; ‘‘ I can get it ! ” 

This time she tried with both feet, but 
Bewick held firmly. She gave up, and he 
relaxed the pressure. She dashed at the 
stool suddenly and nearly got it. Bewick 
was just in time to save it, but caught her 
foot too. 

“ You clumsy cruel brute, ” she cried, 
bringing that hoof down on me like that. ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


27 


It had grazed her shoe, though she looked 
as if every bone were crushed. Beauty 
heroic in suffering became her. 

'' It was clumsy, ” said Bewick. '' There 
you are. ” He kicked the stool to her. She 
returned it, so did he. 

'' Oh, if you want a game of romps, you 
can have it,” she declared putting her foot 
on his, and keeping it there till shaken off, 
while Bewick got more and more puzzled at 
her behaviour. He was something other 
than puzzled. She gave him the idea that 
there was something behind all this, some- 
thing only partly kept back. He had not 
seen her look so attractive before, so pecu- 
liarly attractive. The seaweed eyes shone 
like gems ; the bright red complexion, bran- 
patched, glowed under the flaming hair. 

It was time she stopped, he thought. As 
if feeling his wish, Susan declared it was 
tiring work. 

“ I am getting hot, ” she exclaimed. Look 
at my hair, what a state it ’s in. ” 

She went to the glass and put herself to 
rights. 

“ My veil, please. Luce, ” holding out her 
hand. 


28 


HER OWN DEVICES 


He put the veil in her hand, and it slid 
through the fingers to the ground. 

Luce, you are careless, ” she said, as he 
picked it up ; and as he rose her hand brushed 
lightly along his cheek, so lightly, that it 
sent a thrilling message to his brain. It 
was a blow in appearance, a caress in effect. 

“ Tie my veil, Lucien, ” she said, holding 
the ends out behind her without moving. 

He took the veil and tied it once. 

“ Hot so fast, ” she cried. Their eyes met 
in the glass, where they could see themselves 
talking. 

He untied and retied it. 

'' Hot so loose, Luce, ” she laughed ; but 
when he looked at her reflection, it was very 
proper. 

He untied the veil, and would have begun 
again, but she took it from him angrily. 

'' How late it is ; I must go. Tell Eose 
I Ve been, and wish her a good time at 
Westport. ” 

She passed out, Lucien following. She 
could not open the outer door. She was 
standing so that he had to pass his arm 
behind her to reach the latch. Even then 
he had to lean over her. She started aside. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


29 


“ What are you doing ? ” she asked sharply. 
“ That ’s better, ” he said opening the door 
with his other hand. “ Good-bye, Susan. ” 

'' Good-bye, ” Susan replied, stepping into 
the street and walking away quickly. 

As Lucien looked after her he felt that she 
was angry with him, and yet he had done 
nothing. 


CHAPTEE II 


Bewick had watched Susan till she turned 
out of Wilmot Gardens. She kept close to 
the houses, and though she walked fast, it 
was not with her usual air. She looked limp 
and shrunken and fugitive. He stared up 
the road still, though she was long out of 
sight. 

“ Is the master in ? ” asked some one at his 
side. 

Eyan ! ” he exclaimed. “ Eose will be 
glad! When did you get hack? Come in! 
How well you ’re looking ! ” 

“ The typical fair bulky Anglo-Saxon met 
in every class in England from bird-snarer 
to bishop; sometimes oddly dowered with 
talent, as in the case of Eyan Legard, who 
daren’t use his right name, Locke, because 
the British think an actor is not respectable. 
That ’s the voice of the American press. 
They do hit you off, don’t they?” laughed 
Locke, as they went upstairs. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


31 


They smoked and talked of all that had 
happened since Eyan left, a year ago. Be- 
wick’s school friend, Willie Eaynor, had 
died about two years ago. Lucien had gone 
to Oxford when Willie entered at the Acad- 
emy schools ; and when Lucien brought back 
his new friend, Eyan Locke, the three young 
men became close pals. Perhaps Lucien 
cared a bit more for Willie than for Eyan, 
and that was not surprising. Thesevtwo had 
a common strain of imagination which Eyan 
did not share, and actually scoffed at and 
chaffed about. He spoke irreverently of 
Eaynor’s successive enthusiasms. He went 
so far as to say that Whistler was obscure, 
and for Bewick’s chastening, declared that 
the music of '' Queen of My Heart ” was in 
all respects superior to the compositions of 
Palestrina. 

But Eyan had his weakness. Had he not 
unwearily vaunted the profession of arms? 
Clearly it was the duty of the others to point 
out that warfare was an unprogressive science, 
that the strategy of to-day was essentially 
that of Alexander and of Csesar, and that as 
man got further from the animal, he thought 
less of fighting. 


32 


HER OWN DEVICES 


If the free play of criticism is of any value, 
those young men must have improved one 
another. Consequently, when Eyan and 
Lucien met after a long separation they were 
sure to talk of Eaynor. 

‘‘ That ’s the last picture he finished, ” said 
Bewick, pointing to a landscape on the oppo- 
site wall. He began it the day we went 
down to him at that hole in Suffolk. Then 
he stowed it away for a long time, just as 
he did with them all.” 

Lucien, wasn’t he great on personality in 
art that day? He was very strong on that 
notion,” said Eyan. 

Always very strong, Eyan. ” 

“ Technique is nothing — yourself is every- 
thing. That was the refrain, ” continued 
Eyan. '' He could not see what I meant by 
one’s self getting in the way.” 

“ Will you want the pictures he gave you ? ” 
asked Bewick. '' They ’re in the other room. ” 

Keep them till I have a house of my 
own. ” 

More chance of it now, I hope ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t think so, except on the ridiculous 
condition that we should live with him and 
have the property when he dies. My dear 


HER OWN DEVICES 


33 


Lucien, Sir Thomas has no imagination, or 
he ’d never ask such a thing. ” 

'' Not such a very had thing after all. 
Five thousand a year between you, do as you 
like, and have the wife you want,” urged 
Bewick. 

“ Why, they have n’t been in the county 
two generations. The first Hoyle was a 
Bond Street tradesman in William the 
Fourth’s time.” 

“ And the first-known Locke of your family 
was a goldsmith in George the First’s reign,” 
said Bewick. 

'' That ’s quite different, quite, ” said Eyan. 

'' Can’t you see the difference? Lucien, you 
never could see the thing rightly, you never 
understood. ” 

Lucien ’s unsentimentality made them drop 
the subject just as one who did understand 
came into the room. 

It was pretty to see Eyan, pink and laugh- 
ing, standing over Eose. She welcomed him 
with both hands, with looks and voice of 
delighted surprise. As usual, when she was 
pleased, her colour had spread over her face. 
This is charming if the colour is cool and 
the face not too large. It became Eose won- 

3 


34 


HER OWN DEVICES 


derfully well. It went with the rare, true 
brown hair, the dark grey eyes, and the tall 
light form. 

Eyan, have some dinner with us ? ” she 
asked. '' You can’t be playing to-night. ” 

She touched the electric bell and told 
Sharpe that Mr. Locke would stay, and 
wanted an explanation of two tea-cups in a 
dining-room at this hour. 

'' Me and a friend, ” said Bewick. 

'' Lady -friend, I know, ” said Eose. '' Eyan 
they ’re still at it. They run after him 
terribly. I ’m tired of ladies inquiring about 
'dear Mr. Bewick,’ 'your good husband,’ 
and so on.” 

“We all suffer that way,” said Eyan. 

“ Which was it this time. Luce ? ” 

“ Susan Stanier ; your introduction, mind ? ” 
“ Entertaining actresses while I ’m una- 
wares. Lucien, you ’re getting on, ” ex- 
claimed Eose. 

“ Lively girl, Susan, ” said Eyan, smiling. 
It was time to get ready for dinner Eose 
declared. And afterwards, while Lucien 
was putting his music-room in order, Eyan 
and Eose talked in nice full, solid, serious 
fashion. No skimming over things, no 


HER OWN HE VICES 


35 


jumping from one subject to another, but 
everything and everybody honestly discussed. 
Eyan liked listening to Fleur de Luce, as 
he had called Eose any time these five years, 
and when she had a lot to tell him he liked 
it all the better. Every one knew he spoilt 
her, and some said it was ridiculous, and 
others said it was scandalous; but Eyan 
didn’t hear these things, and Eose didn’t 
notice them. 

So Eose talked, Eyan smoked, and ques- 
tioned intelligently, and Lucien would come 
in and ask about things he had composed for 
ladies. 

'' Eyan, we ’re nearly out of Philipson’s 
clutches, ” said Eose. At the end of this 
year Luce will have paid for the partnership, 
and then we shall have what he really makes. 
It is wretched to see each year a nice income 
made and then come the words ' less payment 
under agreement, March 23, 1889,’ and off 
goes the greater part of it. ” 

‘'Isn’t it worth to get into Philipson’s 
business? That other fellow — Lloyd is n’t 
it — had to pay a lot down, had n’t he ? ” 

“ Eleetwood Lloyd ! ” replied Eose. “ Of 
course he did, and quite right too. What 


36 


HER OWN DEVICES 


does he know of architecture ? He ’s done 
very well coming in just when Lucien’s work 
had got known and made people talk of 
Philipson’s. Oh, they had the best of 
Lucien! He should have waited.” 

Should he ? Why did n’t he ? ” 

“ Because, ” said Eose, ‘‘ he wanted to get 
married. ” 

“ That was imprudent, ” replied Eyan. 
" He should have started for himself, and 
when he had succeeded, if he thought marriage 
desirable, he could have — ” 

Asked me, I suppose, ” said Eose ; “ and 
left me to wait for years in a cathedral city 
with a widowed aunt and an amorous 
chapter. ” 

" Nothing is more picturesque than con- 
stancy, and if it ’s alleviated by the season 
in town, it ’s quite endurable. Besides, in 
these matters prudence should rule, ” declared 
Eyan. 

'' Five thousand a year! ” 

" Fleur de Luce ! ” 

‘‘ Any news, Eyan ? Still unreasonable ? ” 
Sir Thomas will not understand. Alice 
says he ’s very strong against the stage still, 
and she thinks he ’d give way if I gave up my 


HER OWN DEVICES 


37 


profession. But, of course, that ’s impossible. 
I ’m not going to give up my profession, and 
let Tommy Hoyle keep me and my wife. 
Wlio ’s Tommy Hoyle to object to the stage ? 
If I 'd gone into the army, it would have 
been different. I should have had my com- 
pany by this time, and Hoyle could have 
settled what he liked on Alice, and I should 
have stuck to the regiment, and run down to 
Porthwick two or three times a year, and 
we 'd have been all right. But that can’t be ; 
so it ’s no use grieving. ” 

“ What does Alice say ? ” 

" She never does say much, you know. 
I ’ve told her she ’s not to think she ’s bound 
to me in any way. It wouldn’t be fair to 
her, would it ? ” 

Eose knew this story of a prejudiced old 
man, and a proud young man. Eyan had 
talked of Alice till Eose believed she knew 
her well. Her heart went out to the girl 
who loved Eyan so well, who was fighting 
steadily to get her lover without losing her 
father. Sir Thomas at first had absolutely 
refused to consider General Locke’s son as a 
possible son-in-law. Young Locke was a 
good sort enough, said Sir Thomas, before he 


38 


HER OWN DEVICES 


had run against Eyan’s pride; but if his 
grandfather and father had ruined the family, 
why, he ’d have to bear it. It was nonsense 
to think of living in any society without hav- 
ing what that society was founded on. 

Yet Eyan visited at Porthwick, and Alice 
refused a good offer. Then Eyan went on 
the stage. Every right-thinking lady was 
glad dear Alice was free at last, and utterly 
surprised when they found she did not mean 
to use her freedom. Had they known of Sir 
Thomas’s offer, and the way Eyan had re- 
ceived it, they would have been still more 
surprised. 

Eose admired a girl who could do all this 
without losing Eyan or quarrelling with Sir 
Thomas. For her sake, as well as his own, 
she had helped Eyan as much as she could, 
mainly by listening to his accounts of Sir 
Thomas’s pig-headedness. Perhaps Eyan’s 
determination to sacrifice love to pride im- 
pressed Eose. That he should suffer by lov- 
ing Alice was in the nature of things, and to 
be borne as well as possible; but that he, 
Eyan Locke, should be dependent on the 
Hoyle family was unthinkable, a manifest 
absurdity, and an outrage on human reason. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


39 


This from a man who treated every one like 
an equal. 

Eose attracted confidences often undesired, 
never repelled. Her sympathy acted uncon- 
sciously. Eyan talked on till he remem- 
bered that he was talking of himself. 

Lucien’s flower ” — he was fond of play- 
ing with the name he had given her — '' why 
do you worm my inmost thoughts from me ? 
I believe you are studying human nature. 
You get us under your spell, and we cannot 
choose but speak. Is n’t this like the Sun- 
days at Croydon, when I was thinking of 
going on the stage ? ” 

“We shall go back to the country further 
away when we ’re better off. London all the 
year round takes your life out of you. In 
the country one can live. If Lucien makes 
a lot of money out of his opera off we go, and 
I get a garden again ! ” exclaimed Eose. 

“ What opera % When and where is it to 
be done ? ” 

“ Mrs. Ernestine Baumann has written the 
libretto, and is going to sing the soprano 
heroine. ” 

“ Are there two ? ” 

“ Yes ; there ’s a contralto heroine as well. ” 


40 


HER OWN DEVICES 


" I wonder how much of her will be left at 
the finish ? ” said Eyan. 

'' Eyan, don't he cynical and professional,” 
Eose begged. '' Mr. Baumann is very rich, 
and Mrs. Baumann hopes he 'll let her act. 
It is n't the money she 's anxious about, but 
whether he 'll let her appear in public. She 's 
delighted with Lucien's music; it 's the best 
he 's ever written. It will do him a lot of 
good. You know he 's far and away better 
than many new composers. I 'm going to 
have a box the first night. You 'll come, 
won't you, Eyan? Ask for Mrs. Lucien 
Bewick's box. '' 

Eyan smiled kindly at the glowing woman. 

When is it to be ? I'm going on tour, 
you know. Engaged by cable by Thornley 
Slake, Esquire. '' 

'' It all depends on Mr. Baumann, '' replied 
Eose. “ Everything 's prepared. All the 
music copied, all the company selected, and 
the Lenseum offered at a very low rent. '' 

" My dear, they could n't rebuild it under 
six months,'' urged Eyan. 

'' Eebuild it ! Why, we should only start 
it at the Lenaeum, and transfer it to a better 
theatre. '' 


HER OWN DEVICES 


41 


Manageress ! ” 

If it ’s a success, Lucien will make heaps 
of money. That German makes ninety 
thousand a year, ” declared Kose. 

Eighty, is n’t it ? ” replied Eyan. '' How 
will this fit in with Philipson’s ? ” 

Like this, ” said Eose, emphasising her 
words with beats of two right fingers on the 
left palm. " We go to Westport on Monday, 
only for a fortnight. Mrs. Baumann’s sure 
to know by then, because her husband must 
decide before he goes to Africa. If he con- 
sents, Luce will give the rest of his holiday 
to rehearsing. ” 

“ If not?” 

“ Then he ’ll go to Brittany to look after a 
chateau which he ’s going to rebuild. The 
owner was so pleased with Lucien ’s plans 
that he accepted them at once. ” 

“ How does Luce like the opera idea ? ” 
“Very much indeed; but he was never 
eager to get his work done in public. ” 

“ He ’s right, ” declared Eyan. “ Art 
should not be professional. I ’m sure, now, 
it ’s a mistake to make any art a daily occu- 
pation. But, theories aside, do you like the 
idea of Lucien taking to the stage ? ” 


42 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“ But he ’ll only be at the rehearsals ; when 
the opera ’s out he ’ll go back to work. ” 

“ It ’s a mistake having anything to do 
with the stage after a certain age, ” said 
Eyan. You should begin early. All the 
same, and moralising apart, I hope the 
thing ’ll turn out well for both your sakes. 
You know that, don’t you, Mrs. Lucien? 
Promise me you won’t put yourself, your 
feelings, too much into it ? ” 

I could bear failure, ” replied Eose. 

But Eose had packing to do. Eyan talked 
the opera over with Lucien till she came 
back, wished him good-night, and was kind 
enough to open the front door for him. It ’s 
the only way to get rid of you, ” she laughed. 
“Can you come to us at Westport; Mrs. 
Valance will be there.” 

“ Telegraph when she leaves ; a pleasant 
holiday to you. Good-bye, Fleur de Luce. ” 
Eyan Locke walking to his rooms in Sloane 
Street took himself seriously to task for not 
giving his true opinion about this opera 
project. 

The opinion was sentimental. He did n’t 
like the idea of either Lucien or Eose being 
mixed up with the stage. Hot because they 


HER OWN DEVICES 


43 


were too good for it — that was all nonsense 
— but it wasn’t their line, they weren’t 
built that way; and Mrs. Baumann had 
better go to Africa with her husband, and 
stay there. 

Meeting a trooper of the Fourth Hussars 
did n’t brighten his mood. The ring of the 
spur still cut him, but the time had passed 
when he envied every soldier he met. He 
looked after the smart Hussar. A bit sprung, 
he seemed, but should pass with a pal at the 
gate. 

In Sloane Street he remembered that 
Fellowes, who had been at Winchester with 
him, had a sailing-boat at Yarmouth or 
Lowestoft. Perhaps he could get it for 
Bewick, who could be trusted with a boat. 
Eose said he was overworked and worried 
about this Brittany business. If it only 
took him away from Mrs. Valance’s eternal 
chatter, it would do good. 

Eyan told a cabman to drive to the Uni- 
versities, and resolving to write to Hastings 
Laurence, who was to be Mrs. Baumann’s 
business manager, and ask him to look after 
Lucien, he fell asleep and woke up much 
refreshed as the cab stopped at the club 


44 


HER OWN DEVICES 


entrance. Fellowes was there at whist ; 
Eyan wrote to Laurence while the game was 
being finished. Fellowes was a generous 
chap, who thought his generosity a failing, 
and tried to keep it in check by unnatural 
caution. 

At first he offered to give Locke the boat 
outright. In the end, it seemed that every 
scratch on her would be repeated on his 
heart. Eyan promised to insure her. 

She ’s insured already ; do what you like 
with her,’’ said Fellowes, his •pro formH cau- 
tion being worn out. What ’s your friend’s 
name ? I ’ll give you the order now ; better 
have the dinghy too. Come and smoke up- 
stairs, then we can walk to Knightsbridge to- 
gether. Locke, you ought to have a theatre. 
You ’d do very well, I ’m sure.” 

Capital — the capital ? ” 

“Well, you come to me! The old man, 
Mrs. Fellowes’ father owes me a turn, so you 
tell me if I can help you at any time. Of 
course I could n’t answer for it ; all the old 
man’s money is invested, and he thinks every 
one wants to rob him.” 

“Very kind of you, Fellowes ; I ’ll remem- 
ber, but it ’s not likely I shall trouble you.” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


45 


Hence it came about that Eose Bewick, 
walking with Mrs. Valance on the Green at 
Westport a day or two after her arrival, was 
accosted by mercenary Suffolk mariners, whose 
tone and air implied that they were lending 
the lady a nice little boat from the goodness 
of their hearts. Then they gave her a letter 
from Eyan, in which he warned her against 
their rapacity. ‘'We brought her from 
Lowestoft,” they continued. “We put her 
straight yesterday, and started in a storm of 
rain ’bout six this morning. Then it came 
on to blow, and she not having been out for 
weeks, we had to be extra careful.” 

These simple seamen touched hands with 
England’s naval heroes, but they did n’t say 
how long the rain lasted, nor that the wind 
was aft, and that they had been in Westport 
two hours. 

A Valance boy, stopped in transit, fetched 
Lucien, who rowed out to the half-decked 
little yawl, and signed for her as intact and 
in good condition. Lucien walked with the 
sailors to the station, where they drank 
bottled Bass and disclaimed expecting any 
remuneration, as Mr. Fellowes paid them all 
the year round. 


46 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Eose was delighted, though she never went 
sailing. 

“ Is n’t that just like Eyan ! ” she declared. 
“He does everything beforehand, and en 
'prince, and it falls on you all of a sudden. 
I ’ll write to him to-day ; perhaps I had 
better telegraph, he ’d like to know directly.” 

Eose would n’t go in any ship under 3000 
tons. Mrs. Valance went everywhere, but 
she went on the Flight once, and once only, 
and returned with a spectral complexion. 
After that, Lucien invited ladies in vain, and 
went out by himself or with a Valance boy 
charged to silence, so that the composer 
might revise his opera. 

The figure of Susan veiling and unveiling, 
looking at him out of a mirror, appeared and 
reappeared. The grey-green sea over the 
sandbank, whence the young Valances hauled 
up stray crabs, reminded him of her eyes. He 
could n’t get rid of the feeling that he had n’t 
treated her rightly. Precisely what he should 
have done, he could n’t say. 

Lucien was trying to speak a foreign 
language. In his school-days boys and girls 
were kept apart, and at college the deifica- 
tion of woman was in full swing. Euskin, 


HER OWN DEVICES 


47 


Tennyson, and a mystic tutor impressed on 
Lucien’s reverent nature the great truth of 
the immaculate superiority of Woman. And 
worse, he was thrown among women who 
expressed the Anglican idea so sweetly, that 
any other seemed coarse and degraded. It 
was all very well to allow that some women 
were not good, hut that was no practical use 
if you did n’t meet them. If instead of going 
to a serious church architect in a cathedral 
town Lucien had learnt his work in London, 
he might have learnt some other things of 
value. 

When the modern change in the feminine 
ideal came, Lucien had got his stamp not too 
deeply to fuse away in passion perhaps, hut 
passion did not come. He astounded Leath- 
borne by falling in love with Eose Lambert, 
the least Victorian of girls. 

Leathborne found that it had reared a 
modern girl — a girl who made friendships 
with men, who read what she liked, talked 
freely, took all the pleasure she could get, 
and was still an English gentlewoman. 

Eose made Lucien expand his feminine 
ideal. She did n’t fit any of the niches. He 
made a lady chapel for her, where he served 


48 


HER OWN DEVICES 


with a love that was stronger than passion, 
stronger than he knew. 

Eocking in the Flight, the cloistral life at 
Leathborne came suddenly back to him. The 
quiet streets and formal houses, the famous 
spire quivering in the sun, the semi-clerical 
functionaries, the gentle manners, and the 
dignified life rose before him “ like a dream 
remembered in a dream.” 

He was glad he had to leave London with- 
out seeing Susan again. She would have 
forgotten all about him by the time they 
met. There was nothing to bother about, 
but — he wanted her to understand his be- 
haviour. If it wasn’t for that he should n’t 
think of her. A high wind kept him on land 
for two days. Susan did n’t worry him so 
much now. Eose said the sailing had done 
him good already. 

The day that the Flight went out again he 
had this letter : — 


Imperial Hotel, St. Joseph’s, 

“ 22nd July. 

“Dear Antonio, — You must be expecting 
a letter from me. I feel that. From seeing 
my duties to doing them, is a far cry with 


HER OWN HE VICES 


49 


me. To-day I am conscientious and bored. 
This is a lovely place, with miles and miles 
of glorious sands for galloping, and from my 
window I can see the little white horses rac- 
ing on the dancing waves. A ship has just 
passed the lighthouse, with a queenly air and 
dainty sails like snow. I want to be in her, 
and sail, and sail away anywhere, as long as 
I don’t know where. I always envy people 
on unknown ships. I should n’t if I knew 
where they were going. St. Joseph’s has sea 
in front, and on each side. Fancy stretches 
of ocean for thousands and thousands of 
miles ! Newfoundland is the nearest land 
looking out to sea, or is it Vancouver 
Island ? 

‘^You’re wondering how I got here. 
London had knocked me up ; I ’ve been quite 
ill since I saw you. Papa ’s a director of the 
St. Joseph’s Development Company, and took 
me with him for his turn of inspection. We 
are not developing much. The company ’ll 
pay in time. Papa’s companies usually do by 
the time he ’s left them. That ’s only fact ; 
I think papa’s very clever; he sees too far 
ahead, though. When does Mrs. B. open ? 
The Stage says she ’s got the Lenaeum. 

4 


50 


HER OWN DEVICES 


You ’ll get me an engagement, won’t you ? I 
want one badly. Don’t I beg shamefully ? 
I ’m sick of this desert, where no men abide. 
Man was made for society, which is woman. 
You’re not to read the enclosed; it’s for 
Eose, and not for mascuEne eyes. My very 
best love to Eose. Hope you ’re happy. — 
Sincerely, 

Susannah. 

“ P. S. — I can sing soprano. — S. S.” 

“ Why does she call me Antonio ? ” asked 
Lucien. He pondered this question in the 
boat, and found but one explanation. He 
spent much time in the Flight thinking about 
the explanation. He was thinking of Susan 
all day now. Eose told him that the enclos- 
ure was the address of a stay-maker — 
“ Corsetiere, Susan calls it.” 

Susan had delicacy. 

Then came Mrs. Baumann’s telegrams, 
a hurried departure, and a plunge into 
rehearsals. 


CHAPTEE III 


Not so very long ago Lucien had looked 
forward eagerly to the production of his 
opera. Eose and he had talked it over from 
its beginning as separate pieces played at 
amateur concerts to the day when, linked 
with Mrs. Baumann’s words, the clean copy 
was at last completed. 

Now it was only something to bring him 
and Susan together. Eose’s anticipation of a 
delighted or disgusted audience were equally 
indifferent. Indeed, in these last dreaming 
days, with the sea speaking of Susan and her 
letter speaking for herself, Eose had not been 
much in Lucien’s thoughts. She may have 
noticed that he was preoccupied, but if so, 
she had attributed it to business worry, and 
thought it best not to say anything. 

The indefiniteness of Mrs. Baumann’s let- 
ter determined Lucien to go to London alone, 
leaving Eose to follow when he knew what 
his plans would be. 


52 


HER OWN DEVICES 


He found everything unsettled. He made 
acquaintance with the stage-manager, Mr. 
Eamidge, and with Mr. Shapley, the con- 
ductor. Laurence, the acting manager, he 
already knew. The day went in altering the 
cast and deciding on scenery and dresses. 

Perhaps Lucien did not consciously intend 
to keep Eose at Westport, where he sent her 
an account of the state of affairs. He was 
ashamed of feeling glad she was not coming 
back immediately. She had given up her 
rooms, and had gone to stay with Mrs. 
Valance. She was glad to hear that Mrs. 
Baumann had engaged Susan, and was sure 
it was through Lucien. 

The next day he went to the theatre, hop- 
ing Susan would not come. Her telegram 
had been vague, and, if she failed to-day, 
there was a good excuse for filling the part. 
On the way he looked in at Philipson’s as 
usual, and had half-an-hour with Fleetwood 
Lloyd, just to keep his hand on things, 
though his holiday was n’t over. 

At the theatre they were rehearsing the 
first act. Lucien listened to his own music 
repeated on the piano, interrupted by Eam- 
idge’s shouts to the chorus. It sounded very 


HER OWN DEVICES 


53 


bad — not at all as it had sounded on his 
piano when he called Eose in to give judg-r 
ment. 

“ Mr. Shapley,” he called from the stalls, 
they ’re taking the beginning of that 
chorus too fast, and the transition is too 
sudden. If you look at the score, you ’ll 
see the change is quite gradual.” 

Shapley came round to explain. It was 
Eamidge, it appeared. He was all for mak- 
ing it easy for the chorus. Shapley went 
back and played the passage, marking the 
changes for the chorus to note. Eamidge 
then came round to state his view. It was 
like that throughout the rehearsal. 

Lucien heard some one talking behind 
him. It was Laurence pointing out struc- 
tural defects to the owner’s surveyor. Be- 
hind stood Susan. Lucien thought he had 
never seen her looking so handsome. He 
saw her through the dreams of many days, 
and was satisfied to see her only. It was 
as if he had suddenly got the taste for a kind 
of music which had never appealed to him 
before. 

She followed the rehearsal till Lucien 
turned to her. She nodded, smiling, and 


54 


HER OWN DEVICES 


waving her hand. ‘‘You are fond of your 
opera, Mr. Bewick,” she said, shaking hands 
with him. “ I Ve been expecting you to see 
me long ago. IVe seen Mrs. Baumann. 
Isn’t she a dear? and isn’t she pretty, and 
so ladylike ? and I ’ve seen Laurence, and he 
says I ’m to play in the first piece, and give 
the matindes. Do you like Laurence ? ” she 
asked, expressing her opinion with a grimace. 

“Yes, I do,” replied Lucien. “Never mind 
him. Come and sit with me over there.” 
She hesitated, but returned with him. Then 
Lucien found the rehearsal less troublesome. 
The sense of responsibility had gone. 

Susan’s engagement had been settled, with- 
out his intervention, in the usual way of 
business. Beyond the introduction, he had 
let things take their course, and had nothing 
to reproach himself with. At the same time, 
he knew that he had stood by, careful to do 
nothing either way, hoping it would end as 
it had. He knew that if the same qualifi- 
cations had been offered by any one but 
Susan, the engagement would not have been 
made. A case was being pleaded in his 
mind, the opposed courses were successively 
stated, but there was something wrong with 


HER OWN DEVICES 


55 


the judge. He apparently did not want to 
hear the case; he was frequently away, he 
made pretext to attend to something else, he 
told the pleaders to arrange it themselves, 
he made delays, and said he had no juris- 
diction. Lucien felt that he was being 
fought for to the sound of his own music. 
It was the finale of the second act that woke 
him up. 

He took Susan to lunch in the annexe at 
Poirier’s. She thought ill of her part, and 
had n’t listened to the music. 

What ’s Miss Vanlore engaged for ? ’’ 

To play Astarte if Mrs. Baumann ’s 
prevented.” 

Oh, that ’s why the paragraphs only men- 
tioned Mrs. Baumann as author, and said 
Vanlore had been specially engaged. I won- 
der she did it. Special terms, I suppose. 
Perhaps she thinks Mrs. Baumann will funk 
at the last. Time you were back, Mr. Com- 
poser. Coming to the stores with me first ? 
Going to get my tonic.” 

You ’re looking very well,” he said, see- 
ing her in daylight. 

‘^Thanks. I am much better — ever so 
much better — than I was when I last saw 


56 


HER OWN DEVICES 


you. Nearly had a nervous breakdown. 
Did n’t you think I was out of sorts ? ” 
She looked curiously at him. 

No, that I did n’t,” replied Lucien honestly. 

“You’re not observant, Mr. Bewick,” she 
replied. “ Will you remember that I was ill, 
quite ill that Saturday ? ” 

“ I don’t see why I should. Does any- 
thing depend on your having been ill that 
day ? ” 

“A great deal,” laughed Susan. 

Then she discussed the company till it was 
time to go back to the theatre. There they 
found Susan would not be wanted any 
longer. 

She took an omnibus to Portland Eoad 
station, and then walked across Eegent’s 
Park towards the chapel. She was having 
a talk with her familiar, the Hydra-headed 
one. There was a great riot among them 
on account of the favour she had suddenly 
shown to one of them. All their little heads 
were now thrilling, and they were all talking 
at once. 

‘‘ How much longer am I to wait ? ” cried 
one of the loudest of them. “ You promised 
me long ago,” grumbled another. “ Why am 


HER OWN DEVICES 


57 


I thrown up for this fellow ? ” demanded 
another. What ’s this fancy, I wonder ? 
Why, you’ve known him years, and sud- 
denly start — It’s ridiculous!” What’s 
the use of giving you dinners and dances, if 
this is the way I am to be treated?” said 
another. 

Then they began to denounce her. They 
called her awful names ; they reminded her 
of many things best forgotten ; they made 
such a noise, that she thought her head 
would split. But she calmed them, and 
soothed them with soft words and pretty 
promises. 

“ Be quiet, dears, and it ’ll be all right. 
You ’ll all have your turn in time. You 
know I treat you fairly. (Interruption.) 
Sh-ssh, don’t be rude. What ’s the use of 
looking angry, and sad, and gloomy, you 
foolish creatures ? This one has been wait- 
ing a long while — years, have n’t you ? And 
you thought your time would never come, 
did n’t you ? But it has, and you ’re happy, 
are n’t you ? You others, remember you ’ll 
lose your turns if I have any more riots.” 

They still grumbled and protested, but 
gradually quieted down to their usual con- 


58 


HER OWN DEVICES 


dition of expectant animation. One she 
gave sweet speech to, words of regret and 
worship, but she could not say much on 
account of the next one, which she shrank 
from as from the dead. 

The name of the Hydra is in dispute, but 
all the heads had men’s names, common or- 
dinary names of to-day and last season — 
names they would answer to, all but the 
one Susan shrank from. 


CHAPTEE IV 


Lucien saw Susan every day, lunched with 
her, shopped with her, lived for her. He 
was the man to know her all his life, and to 
be her friend, and never to think of her 
except as he thought of nice women. Susan 
had determined otherwise. 

Perhaps because some magic had been 
wanted to allure him, perhaps because he 
had not felt her charm, she had encompassed 
him like the enchantress scorned by the hero 
of romance. 

Like those heroes he had been armed 
against all spells except that most dangerous 
to him. Susan’s spell had been cast with 
reckless indifference to its effect on the vic- 
tim. She watched its working. At first she 
thought it had n’t been strong enough. She 
went home that Saturday burning with 
humiliation, shame, and anger. Lucien could 
have no senses, she decided. It was true she 
had been ill. That letter she had written 


60 


HER OWN DEVICES 


solely to prick him. When he came hack 
she saw that the spell had worked. This 
life, too, of rehearsals and restaurants was 
working for Susan just as the long dreamings 
in the Flight had worked for her. She knew 
the rancours and jealousies that lay under 
the superficial friendliness of stage-life ; she 
knew its fausse lonliomie ; she had known it 
for years, had taken to it as to her native 
element. But to Lucien it was the comple- 
ment, the social side of artistic life. He had 
studied and practised music with a certain 
austerity, with a serious striving that had 
little of delight. 

This association with bright, pleasant 
people, who took life apparently so lightly, 
the change from regular hours and office 
work, the joy of shaping his own work and 
of seeing it grow daily towards complete- 
ness, came too suddenly on Lucien. The 
sesthetic strain in his temperament had got 
its gratification at one burst, but it had come 
late. 

He had taken an upper place in this new 
world; he had escaped the disillusioning 
years, and each day the old life grew dim 
and distant, and he forgot its claims and its 


HER OWN DEVICES 


61 


duties under the spell of a woman, under the 
charm of a careless life. 

Meantime the opera was getting on 
quickly. Every one worked hard for Mrs. 
Baumann. As the libretto and the music 
came out very different from the ordinary 
amateur opera, people who had come only for 
their salaries began to take an interest in the 
work. Laurence had aroused a healthy 
rivalry between Eamidge and Shapley. 

Yet Mrs. Baumann became more anxious 
every day. She was confident about the play, 
and herself too. She was a good amateur 
actress, and a fine singer. Laurence said 
failure was out of the question ; no one could 
say how long any piece would run. He spoke 
to Lucien about her and her understudy. 

At lunch, in the usual corner at Poirier’s, 
Lucien told Susan that Miss Vanlore had 
been given the understudy of Mrs. Baumann’s 
part. 

“ That comes of blue eyes and golden hair,” 
declared Susan. Dark men and composers 
always like that sort. A childlike air, and a 
sweet manner — ” 

‘'Add a voice and some knowledge of 
music,” replied Lucien. “ Which,” said Susan, 


62 


HER OWN DEVICES 


clearly ‘ inferred ’ that she had neither.” Her 
very current English nearly alienated Lucien. 
Stronger love a man cannot have. She was 
all right in the usual strata of speech, hut 
when she went higher anything might hap- 
pen ; perhaps she was stronger further 
down. 

“ I implied nothing of the kind,” said 
Lucien. '' By-the-hye, there *s a man looking 
at you,” he continued. Susan sat up pretty. 

Why, it 's papa,” she cried. When did 
he come back ? Did n’t you know him ? 
You’ve seen him before?” 

Only once, and he was dressed very 
differently, and wore a beard.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s enough,” replied Susan. 
“ Here he is.” 

A man of youthful middle age, wearing a 
suit of French grey cloth, patent-leather 
boots, and a high hat of the same colour as 
the clothes, was coming towards them. A 
rose shone in the lapel of his frock-coat, the 
edge of a second waistcoat (straw) was just 
visible above the other, and a bow of fawn 
cotton and a small holland umbrella, ex- 
pressed, according to Mr. Glanville Stanier, 
the man of affairs in town in August. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


63 


He raised his hat liberally to Lucieii, 
showing Shakesperian baldness with a border 
of bushy hair of true gamboge. After com- 
pliments, he inquired of Susan why she was 
not rehearsing. 

Interval, papa ; refreshing the inner wo- 
man,” said Susan promptly, meeting Lucien's 
glances with steadfast eyes. She had re- 
source. “YouVe come up suddenly,” she 
continued. '' Good news ? ” 

I was wired to attend a Board Meeting,” 
replied her father. “ The monthly report of 
visitors to St. Joseph's sent the company's 
shares to f — business done, x. d. The 
Eastwell drain scare did us good. We've 
circulated a paragraph referring to the grow- 
ing public appreciation of St. Joseph's.” 

Mention Eastwell ? ” asked Susan. 

'' The company does not wish to triumph 
over its neighbours. Affairs, Mr. Bewick, 
have their rough side ; still, I have always 
said that even in business a gentlemanly 
spirit is possible. As to the opera now ? It 
marches, I hope? Now, what do you call 
it?” 

“ ‘ A daughter of Barbarie ; or, the Captive's 
Bride,' is the present — the third title.” 


64 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“Sinclair calls it 'The Algerine/ 'The 
Tangerine/ and 'The Tambourine/ ’’ said 
Susan. 

“Don't joke in business, Susan,” said 
Stanier. “ Well now, Mr. Bewick, I suppose 
a romantic subject like that gives a musician 
an opportunity. He can show his versatility, 
his power of rendering the different kinds of 
music. You have corsairs and sailors and 
captives, and a Moorish girl.” 

“ Daughter of the Dey and Dark as Night,” 
interpolated Susan. “Sinclair suggested a 
descriptive programme in the old style, Lu — 
Mr. Bewick.” 

“ You will make use of that charming re- 
quiem of yours,” resumed Mr. Stanier. 

“ It was a cantata,” said Susan. “ When does 
Sylvain come back, papa ? Soon, isn't it ? ” 

“ To-day is Tuesday ; he should be back in 
ten days. It depends how long he has to wait 
for the return vessel. Through the kindness 
of a brother-director of The Food for the 
People Company, I was able to get a compli- 
mentary pass to the Levant for my eldest son, 
Sylvain. You've met him, Mr. Bewick ?” 

“ I think so — some time since — he was 
just leaving school,” said Lucien. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


65 


“ Yes, I was so fortunate as to get him on 
the foundation at St. Yedast’s. The education 
there ranks very high now,” said Mr. Stanier. 

Susan’s sudden announcement that it was 
time to go, cut short the family history. Mr. 
Stanier regretted being detained by a business 
engagement with a foreign gentleman. 

“ They ’re so fond of doing business in cafds. 
The custom of their own country, you know,” 
said Stanier, ceremoniously bowing to Lucien. 

Shall I tell your mother to keep dinner, 
Susan ? ” he asked smiling. 

I sha’n’t be late, papa,” said Susan sub- 
missively, as they turned away. So you 
did n’t recognise my papa ? ” she laughed. ‘‘ I 
remember he had to wear a beard last winter 
when his chest was bad. Lucien, was it very 
wicked of me to say we were going back to 
the theatre ? You see, I wanted to go to 
the stores with you, and papa ’s so particular 
in some things. Is n’t it ladylike to tell 
fibs?” 

“ It ’s not unwomanly, at all events.” 

“ Then you don’t think the worse of me ? ” 
she asked. 

My dear Susan, is it likely ? What a fuss 
you make ! ” 


5 


66 


HER OWN DEVICES 


‘‘ Lucien, does Eose tell fibs ? ” 

Not intentionally,” said Lucien truthful, 
and irritated. Don’t worry any more about 
it, Susette. It would take a deal more than 
that to alter my opinion of you.” 

I said you were not to call me Susette. 
Lucien, we ’ll chuck the stores ; come and sit 
in St. James’s Park instead.” 

A few days before this they had discovered 
that the slums near the Lenaeum stage-door 
were on the verge of the Park, and they had 
gone through Susan’s part on a seat opposite 
the island. 

They got the same place again, where they 
could see the towers of the Horse Guards and 
the new buildings, both dull against the dull 
sky. For days now there had been a thick 
haze between the sun and the earth. Susan 
and Lucien agreed in cursing the weather. It 
disagreed with them both. 

‘'Isn’t papa looking fit?” said Susan. 
“ Now, Lucien, tell me exactly what you think 
of him ? Does n’t he look young to have such 
a fine, strapping daughter ? ” 

“ The responsibility has n’t aged him. He 's 
like you, Susan (I was n’t going to say 
Susette). You have the same gestures, the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


67 


same voice, but you don’t talk in the same 
way.” 

Papa ’s much more fluent than I am,” re- 
plied Susan ; but she was fluent enough to tell 
him a great deal about her father. Usually 
she was extremely cautious and reticent. 
Suddenly she burst into intimate confidences, 
told Lucien of her father’s high descent, shown 
by a curve of the nose and shape of hands 
that were transmitted to the true Staniers. 
Sylvain had n’t these signs, she said ; he took 
after the mother. Susan deplored the fallen 
fortunes of the family. The true doctrine 
was, according to her, that the Staniers were 
badly treated when the Church property was 
cut up. They got a miserable two hundred 
acres of Welsh moorland instead of the lands 
of Yalle Crucis Abbey. Ever since then they 
had been working upward till they reached 
their present culmination in Glanville Stanier. 
He was a company promoter. He had a 
genius for finance. He had been concerned 
in the formation of more companies than al- 
most any one. Out of one of his companies 
a cousin of his had made a fortune. He had 
promised to give papa twenty per cent of his 
profits ; but he had settled the money in trust 


68 


HER OWN DEVICES 


on her mother, so that they only received the 
interest. If papa had been paid the money 
honestly, he’d have made several fortunes 
with it. 

Women are more interesting than their sub- 
jects. Lucien was not interested in the 
Staniers ancient or modern, with one excep- 
tion. He had an idea of the sort of finance 
Stanier was connected with, and he seriously 
doubted the story of the Welsh estate. But 
when a man has reached a certain state of 
emotion, he can endure anything that will let 
him look and look and follow each flicker of 
lip-nerves, meet each glance of eyes, or learn 
the finer granulation of pink on bran-splashed 
cheeks. The stream of confidence flows on 
while he observes the length and inclination 
of an eye-lash, or sees the difference between 
an upper circonflex lip and a lower of bee- 
stung fulness. 

And if the state is spiritual, too, these trivial 
confidences, this course of egotism seems to 
bring them closer and closer, to knit him and 
her together, to shut off the outer world, to 
excite dreams of union, of union that is not 
possible. 

She talked and still she talked, and he 


HER OWN HE VICES 


69 


questioned so that she talked more. People 
passed and she scarcely noticed them, though, 
until she was borne along by her own volu- 
bility, Susan watched each passer-by, watched 
by habit that was nature first. 

“ Eeally, Lucien,’’ Susan broke off, '' I don’t 
know why I tell you all this. You must be 
bored to death.” 

“ So would I die.” 

“Why will you talk like that,” she ex- 
claimed, getting up. “You’ve let me talk 
till it ’s too late to walk, and too early to 
ride.” 

“ Walk part of the way.” 

“No, I shall go by train,” she decided. 

They walked together as far as the corner 
of the Gardens. 

“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her 
hand. 

“ Oh ! I ’ll see you to the station.” 

“Good-bye, Lucien.” The hand was still 
out. He took the hand and had turned 
away. 

“ I might as well fetch that Lytton,” said 
Susan coolly. “ He ’s my favourite novellist.” 

“You’ve a key?” she asked, when they 
reached the flat. “ Will Sharpe be in ? ” 


70 


HER OWN DEVICES 


I suppose so. Why ? ” 

They went into the dining-room. Lucien 
looked among the shelves for Night and 
Morning.” 

When was I here last?” asked Susan. 
‘‘Just before I went away.” 

“ Time I went away.” 

“ Shall I see you to the station ? ” 

“ If you like,” said Susan, from the passage. 
“ What does this card mean ? Out 1 ” 

“ Oh, Sharpe ’s gone out for something.” 
Susan would open the door, and she let 
the catch go. Trying to fix it, she got her 
hands crossed. “ Oh, bother ! ” she said, as 
the spring flew back again. 

One arm drooped at her side; her eyes 
drooped too. She was half-turned from 
Lucien. As he stretched behind her towards 
the handle, his arm touched her waist, and 
his head bent over hers. He remembered 
his oversight the last time, and yet he con- 
trolled liimself. 

“You mustn’t do that! You sha’n’t! It 
would spoil our friendship if you kissed me,” 
cried Susan, timing the speech beautifully as 
the door opened. “ Lucien, remember I don’t 
allow that sort of thing,” proceeded Susan. 


HER OWN EE VICES 


71 


She couldn’t have been angrier if he had 
kissed her. Lucien couldn’t deny an in- 
clination; he couldn’t admit having con- 
quered it. 

‘‘ I should n’t do such a thing without your 
consent,” he replied. 

“ In writing, I suppose,” said Susan. 

What are you talking about, Lucien ? 
What are you thinking about ? What ’s 
come to you?” 

‘‘ I ’m thinking about you usually,” said 
Lucien. 

‘‘ And forgetting Eose ? ” she said sharply. 

Of course, that follows.” 

‘‘ But why ? What have I done that you 
should think — Lucien, was it because I — 
you remember that Saturday before you 
left?” 

“We’re in the street. People will notice,” 
he said, as they reached the station. That 
was her speech, thought Susan, the woman’s 
speech — she should have said it. 

He got her ticket, and saw her into a 
carriage. 

“ Lucien,” she whispered, as the train went 
off, “ don’t look so melancholy handsome. I 
may forgive you. Good-bye till to-morrow.” 


72 


HER OWN DEVICES 


At home Lucien found a telegram from 
Eose, saying that she was returning with 
Mrs. Valance to-morrow. 

Eose duly came with him to rehearsal, 
curious to see this theatre life. She looked 
radiant after her stay at Westport. She was 
shocked at Mrs. Baumann’s appearance. 

Ernestine, what is the matter ? ” she 
exclaimed. '' You look quite ill. You ’re not 
taking proper care of yourself, I know. 
Come hack to lunch with us, will you ? and 
get a rest. I’m going to see the rehearsal 
with Lucien. I ’ve been introduced to such 
a lot of people. They call you ‘the little 
lady.’ Is n’t it nice of them ? You ’re going 
to begin now. Chorus of Christian captives ; 
they don’t look specially Christian, do they, 
Ernestine ? ” 

“ Late again, Lucien,” said Susan. How ’s 
your guilty self this morning? I beg your 
pardon ; I did n’t see Eose, and I did n’t 
know you ! Eeally I see so badly. I am 
awfully glad to see you. How well you 
look, dear ; quite the prettiest woman here. 
That’s Miss Vanlore, the one with the flaxy 
hair. Hot really pretty, is she ? ” Susan ran 
on, hoping Eose would n’t notice her sudden 


HER OWN HE VICES 


73 


reddening. She had been taken by surprise. 
As usual, she had planned her day. It in- 
cluded Bewick, and would have to be 
altered ; so when Eose asked her to lunch she 
excused herself with many thanks, and with- 
out direct asking, found that Eose would n’t 
come back in the afternoon. 

May I leave my part in your room, Mr. 
Bewick. I know where it is. I can’t walk 
about London, and let every one see what I 
am,” said Susan, at the interval. 

Eose went behind the stage, round the 
dressing-rooms, and into the cupboard they 
had given Lucien for a room. At lunch she 
said the theatre was too dirty, dingy, stuffy, 
and hideous for any human being. 

“My dear Mrs. Bewick,” said Mrs. Bau- 
mann, “ you ’re too sensitive. It ’ll go off ! I 
felt like that the first day.” 

“ I sha’n’t feel clean all day,” said Eose. 
“Well, Lucien, you won’t get me to that 
place often. I ’ll see the other acts re- 
hearsed, and that ’ll be enough for me, par- 
ticularly if the company have n’t any better 
idea of music than they had to-day. Was n’t 
it bad, Lucien ? Are they musicians ? Mrs. 
Baumann, you and Miss Vanlore were the 


74 


HER OWN DEVICES 


only people who paid any attention to the 
music. That tenor can't read a note. I saw 
that at once. And the others, oh!” 

After a few more visits she saw that a 
lofty standard was out of place in an enter- 
tainment meant for the general public. Her 
dislike of the theatre remained, and she soon 
gave over going to rehearsals. She got to 
hate the theatre life, which took Lucien 
away all day, and made him so different from 
himself. He was never at rest now. In the 
evenings either he was seeing Mrs. Baumann, 
or Eamidge called, or one of the company 
came to try a song. It was telling on Lucien. 
He was absorbed, or tetchy, or in wild spirits. 
To-night Susan was coming. 

Susan was late for dinner, and full of Cub- 
an d-dried excuses. Afterwards she and Lucien 
practised in the music-room. How weari- 
some it was to hear him repeat his directions I 
Then she began again in exactly the same 
key. She was very careless; it was only 
a matter of the time and keeping in one key 
till the change — a simple transition. 

“Eose, dear,” said Lucien, entering sud- 
denly, ‘‘just come and show Susan how to 
sing this.” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


75 


For no reason Eose felt her heart thrill, 
unless it were that he was speaking to her 
as he used to. 

‘‘ Oh, you artist-children ! ” she laughed, 
going to the music-room with him. 

I ’m so sorry, Mrs. Bewick,” exclaimed 
Susan. It was Lucien’s fault. It was quite 
unnecessary.” 

She was red and hot, and out of temper. 

“ That change is difficult if you he not 
absolutely right in the time,” said Eose, 
taking the music. 

Lucien touched the piano. 

“ Try it over slow,” he said. 

Eose sang it through correctly and easily. 

That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Bewick. 
I see now. I won’t go on now ; my voice is 
tender. I ought to be moving.” 

She was putting her hair straight, when 
suddenly it all came down in a stream of 
copper with black shadows. Lucien saw a 
new Susan, who suggested quite a different 
set of ideas. Odd how the mere arrange- 
ment of her hair alters a man’s idea of 
a woman. Up to now Susan’s hair had 
seemed to him to have an especially out- 
door air. That long, straight mass of colour. 


76 


HER OWN DEVICES 


making the face pale, stayed with him all 
night. 

A day later Eose went to stay with some 
friends near London. Lucien was glad, and 
owned that he was glad. Eose hampered 
him very much now. She would interfere, 
make plans suddenly, and come to the theatre 
without telling him before. She was awfully 
in the way ; she might see that. These 
thoughts passed through his mind on his 
way. They seemed quite natural, attracted 
no challenge from himself. He saw nothing 
strange in them. 

Without effort or intention he had become 
indifferent to Eose. She seemed to have no 
more claim on him than Mrs. Baumann or 
any other of his lady friends. There was no 
repulsion. He still perceived her attractions ; 
admired her as he might admire a work of 
art ; but for him she had no charm, no appeal. 
He admitted this feeling not as curious or 
dishonourable, but of something quite in the 
usual course of events. He was morally 
paralysed as regards Eose. Her absence 
appeared not so much fortunate as obvious. 
It gave him the free association with Susan 
which was now a necessity of his life. Eose 


HER OWN DEVICES 


77 


went, forgotten except for some perfunctory 
letters. Susan remained, a comrade in work, 
a companion in pleasure. 

At their first meeting after Eose had left, 
Susan discussed their position in plain lan- 
guage. She gave pretty names to her own 
qualities — this she calls frankness. 

‘‘We will sit here,” she said, as they passed 
some chairs near the bridge in St. James’s 
Park. “ Lucien, you ’re making a mistake. 
Let ’s understand one another. You fancy 
you ’re in love with me.” 

“ My dear Susan, I admit the fact.” 

“Do you fancy I’m in love with you?” 
she asked. 

“ No, dear, I don’t,” said Lucien. Susan 
smiled. 

“ Why do you do it, then ? ” she asked. 
“ Listen, Lucien. I like you very much, and 
I want always to be friends, but you must n’t 
talk about being in love with me.” 

“I did n’t.” 

“Well, I did,” she rejoined; “it’s best to 
be frank about these things. You know it ’s 
wrong and foolish, and can’t lead to any- 
thing. Can it, now ? Let ’s hear no more 
of it, and be as we were.” 


78 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“If you don’t want me to talk of it, I 
won’t,” said Lucien ; “ but that won’t alter 
the fact.” 

“ What fact ? I don’t admit that you love 
me,” she replied. ‘‘You ’ve no right to. Do 
you mean to say I led you on ? ” 

“No, I don’t say that for a moment,” ex- 
claimed Lucien. “ I should n’t like to think 
that.” 

“ Some girls do more than you ’d think,” 
said Susan. 

“ I ’ve never met them, and I don’t want 
to,” said Lucien. “You needn’t bother about 
me, Susan. I sha’n’t talk about it, or worry 
you. Let’s go on as before. Forget that I 
love you. I sha’n’t remind you, though I 
shall love you, all the same.” 

“ There you go again, breaking your prom- 
ise as you make it,” she replied, getting up. 
“Well, I’ve said what I ought, Lucien, so 
now you know. You needn’t come to the 
stores with me to-day.” 

“ It ’s my way home, so we can go so far 
together.” 

“ So far, and no further,” she laughed ; and 
yet he went to the stores with her, and had 
tea there, and walked nearly home with her. 


HER OWN DEVICES 79 

That was Susan’s way. Her speech and 
her actions contradicted one another. 

Her proper attitudes scarcely lasted long 
enough for a snapshot. If she meant what 
she said, she should have restricted her 
association with Lucien to purely business 
matters. She knew well enough that he was 
not able to insist on keeping on the present 
terms, and she knew he was not the sort of 
man to annoy a woman. 

If her attitude had been sincere, she would 
have reconciled her words and her actions. 
But one man in August is worth many in 
the season, and he can be dropped when 
people come to town. Besides, Lucien might 
be useful professionally, and Eose knew a 
lot of people, and, moreover, Lucien was 
amusing. He was so young, compared to a 
girl who had begun life, of a sort, at sixteen. 
He did n’t know women, of a sort, a little 
bit. He believed them. He did n’t seem to 
know his strong points ; he thought every 
man was a gentleman, that every one had 
been, or could have gone, to the ’Varsity, and 
that every one was as good-looking or bad- 
looking as himself. And besides, and above 
all, he was very, very much gone on her, Susan 


80 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Stanier, and that, too, was amusing. It had 
taken a good deal of doing, she admitted, hut 
it had been done. 

As she thought of Eose, absent, trusting, 
and ignorant, Susan thrilled with triumph. 

Eose’s husband ! That was success in more 
than one sense. 


CHAPTEE V 


Thkough a sunless August till September 
brought the opening night irritatingly near, 
Lucien and Susan passed their days together, 
lovers except for some forbidden words, some 
unpermitted caresses. Sometimes Susan 
would pull him up, usually by referring to 
Eose. She kept up the fiction of ignoring 
the fact when it suited her. For days she 
let his love-language pass, then on some 
casual dearest ” she would fiare up. 

Lucien, drop that, ” she would say, set- 
ting her features to dignity. Keep those 
names for your wife. You ’re breaking the 
compact. ” 

The effect of such speeches was spoilt be- 
cause Susan looked especially handsome when 
she put on dignity, and stared at Lucien from 
widened green eyes ; spoilt, also, because she 
soon relapsed into the most intimate confi- 
dences about herself — always about herself, 
and her family as affecting herself. 

6 


82 


HER OWN DEVICES 


In the lunch hours spent in St. James’s 
Park she talked of herself as freely as girls 
talk to their betrothed lovers — Vegoisme db 
deux, but Susan’s was the egoism they shared. 
That he could endure this flood of trivial con- 
fidence about her art, ” her ambitions, her 
childhood, her youth, her home, what she 
thought last year or yesterday, gave the 
measure of Lucien’s infatuation. 

'' Girls ought to like their mother best, 
oughtn’t they ? ” she said once as they sat in 
the familiar path where they could see the 
cupola of the Horse Guards dull against the 
low grey clouds. don’t; father’s my 

favourite. I think a lot of him. He ’s very 
unlucky. His family never treated him 
properly, never helped as they might. He 
only wanted capital. He ’d have been rich 
long ago if he ’d had only a little capital. 
Look at that Domestic Supply Company; 
that was his idea. He started that Natural 
Hair-pin Company. Here ’s one. Look, Lu- 
cien, it matches the hair, and never falls out 
if you put it in carefully. Papa ’s full of 
ideas, and he can explain them so well. 
People believe him. Then he ’s so gentle- 
manly. Don’t you think his manners lovely ? 


HER OWN DEVICES 


83 


He reminds me of the grands signors (seig- 
neurs, is it ?). He ’s more of the gentleman 
than you are, Lucien. ” 

Are there degrees ? ” he asked. 

Susan hesitated. She feared Lucien ’s social 
standard, and suspected irony in his simplest 
judgments. Papa has a grant of arms, ” she 
continued. " The right to hear arms makes a 
gentleman. Our grant came from Henry YI. 
Did your family have a grant of arms, Lucien ? ” 
‘‘ I never heard of it, ” said Lucien. “ They 
did n’t wait for it. ” 

" Then they could be hanged. ” 

" They were, dear. An unhanged Bewick 
could n’t be laid. His ghost wailed at nights 
for having broken the family record. ” 

“ You ’ve no romance. Luce, not a bit, or 
you wouldn’t chaff. You’re a plebeian. 
Luce ; I ’m an aristocrat. ” 

Our hangings go a long way back. ” 

“ The quarterings are more important, ” 
laughed Susan. '' Did you see that old lady 
smiling at us ? She thinks we ’re engaged. 
It ’s awfully silly going on like this, Lucien. 
What did your friend, Mr. Shepherd, say ? 
He ’ll think we ’re always together. That 
was the third time he ’s seen us. ” 


84 


HER OWN DEVICES 


'' When I told him you were playing in my 
opera he thought it quite natural. Would 
you like to see Andr^ Doherty in ' A Counter 
Countess ? ’ Shepherd offered me a box. ” 
Yes, I should. Luce, may I bring papa 
and the mater? They ’d like to go. All 
right; get it for Friday, dear. See how 
catching your bad habit is. Not that it 
means anything. I often call men dear, ” she 
went on. '' I like Shepherd, Luce. Wish 
there was more of him. He 's a gentleman. 
Luce. ■ You know an awful lot of gentlemen. 
Don’t look so surprised. You know what I 
mean ; if you don’t, pretend to. Every one ’s 
friends are not gentlemen. ” 

" Oh, I think they are. I never met — ” 

'' As if your experience was the rule, ” said 
Susan. “ Sometimes, Luce, you are too irri- 
tating. You do it on purpose, I believe. 
Surely you know every one has n’t been to a 
public school and to college, and lived with 
nice people all their lives — not but what 
they ’re just as good. ” 

'' Just what I say. You ’ll be a Eadical in 
time, Susan.” 

Ladies are always Conservatives, ” re- 
plied Susan seriously. " Luce, does Shep- 


HER OWH DEVICES 


85 


herd talk about us — women, I mean, you 
know ? ” 

“ He said something about my having got 
hold of another pretty woman. ” 

‘‘ Another ! He said pretty. Hot hand- 
some. Most people call me handsome. Is 
he fond of fair women ? ” 

'' Who ? Shepherd ? I don’t know, really. 
I think he ’s indiscriminate. ” 

'' Is that polite for promiscuous, ” said 
Susan. “ I do like to shock you ! Did Shep- 
herd say whether Andr^ Doherty was still 
living with Lord Fulham? Have I shocked 
you again ? Do you think an unmarried girl 
oughtn’t to know such things, or oughtn’t to 
speak of them? Isn’t it ladylike? Lots of 
ladies do. Lucien, you are funny about 
ladies, about women. It ’s a great drawback 
being brought up among Anglican angels. 
Perhaps I rather give my sex away. I talk 
so freely with you, Lucien. You make me 
do it. You draw me out, and then you 
go away, and think I ’m not modest or 
ladylike. ” 

“ Oh no, I don’t. ” 

Then you ought to. A man ought to 
value purity in a woman. It ’s only one illu- 


86 


HER OWN DEVICES 


sion more. Personally, I think it much 
more attractive in a man. Not that I ’m a 
New Woman. Oh no ! I’m made on a very 
old pattern, ” sighed Susan. “ That ’s why I 
always get on with men. Women don’t like 
me; they mayn’t say so, hut they don’t. 
Women are awfully envious. Luce, and of 
course I don’t like them. ” 

Out of the fulness of her desire Susan talked 
in this style to Lucien day after day. The 
Park was saturated with her revelations ; 
scarcely a path or a prospect that had not its 
secret, scarcely a spot where Susan had not 
left some of herself. 

In time she had told him so much that it 
was safe to let him see the Stanier family at 
their residence in Apple-tree Place, a turning 
out of the Circus Eoad. It was a house of 
late Gothic — Pugin, filtered through a specu- 
lative builder. Prom the road the mullioned 
windows and tiled roof were just visible 
through a screen of foliage extending for 
many yards around. It gave a sense of spa- 
ciousness; the mellow brick wall suggested 
an ancestral house, and in the afternoon, 
when the milkman had gone, the quiet was 
cloistral. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


87 


At least this was Glanville Stanier’s expres- 
sion as he welcomed Lucien at the garden 
door and led him along a yard and a half of 
flagstone to a trellised porch, where Mrs. 
Stanier was cutting French beans into a pie- 
dish. 

“ There ’s ma doing the complete house- 
wife, ” exclaimed Susan angrily, as her mother 
fled leisurely. '' Papa, look after Mr. Bewick, 
will you ? I sha’nT he a minute. ” 

She plunged indoors, and then arose a 
sound of sweet voices jangled. Mr. Stanier 
rose to the occasion, and offered Lucien whis- 
key and soda. 

I 'm sorry you won’t have any,” he said, 
confident of having followed the usage of good 
society, '' because I know all about our whis- 
key. In fact, we make it. Not here, of 
course; the company, I mean,” he interpo- 
lated, noting Lucien’s alarm — the Eecti- 
fiers’ Company, you know. I’m on the 
Board. We ’re doing very well ; went up | 
to f last week. You see the public take to a 
good thing, and when they compare the analy- 
sis of our Diamond Blend with the finest 
Scotch whiskey on the market, and see how 
low our percentage of fusel-oil is — well, they 


88 


HER OWN DEVICES 


can’t stand out against that. Being distil- 
lers and rectifiers, and supplying the public 
at their own doors, we put our stuff on the 
market at a price which disheartens all com- 
petitors. ” 

" Nice place you ’ve got, Mr. Stanier,” said 
Lucien. 

'' Yes, it is, Mr. Bewick. We call it ‘ The 
Eetreat. ’ The name ’s on the porch, hut the 
convolvulus has grown over it, ” replied Mr. 
Stanier. " No, we ’ve no kitchen garden ; 
that ’s the wall of next door. They ’ve a lot 
of ground. The other side ? that ’s the gar- 
den of the corner house. It runs right 
down to us, and that other one is the street 
wall. ” 

Thus lopped and shorn, '' The Eetreat ” was 
merely a house with a margin. A few paces 
in any direction brought the visitor to an 
alien wall masked by trained creepers. 

'' They Ve robbed you of your garden. ” 

“ You see, Mr. Bewick,” explained Stanier, 
“ the landlord built that house for himself, 
and of course gave himself a good garden; 
and the owner of the other house bought the 
other strip to prevent being overlooked. But 
my little place is just as pleasant, and from 


HER OWN EE VICES 


89 


the bath-room window, where you can't see 
the other houses, the whole place seems to 
belong to ' The Eetreat, ' you T1 see for 
yourself. It 's time to get ready for dinner. 
We 're coming, dear, " he said to a girl who 
had come to the door. Lucien thought she 
was an elder Susan. ‘‘ Alice, you know Mr. 
Bewick ? ” 

The girl took off her glasses and became 
a younger Susan. She shook hands rather 
awkwardly, and coloured shyly. ‘‘ It 's all 
ready, papa,” she said, in a voice as rich 
and soft as Susan's was flat and hard. 

They assembled in the apsidal drawing- 
room like outlaws taking sanctuary, suggested 
Sylvain Stanier, the eldest son, engaging 
Lucien in conversation during an unusually 
long quart d'heure. Mrs. Stanier, an ample 
lady in a black silk dress, which still looked 
well in twilight, left the room suddenly, fol- 
lowed by Susan and Alice. 

“ Since I left St. Vedast's, where the pater 
had got me on the foundation, so I was edu- 
cated on the cheap, ” said Sylvain — well, 
since then I must have been in fourteen 
different companies dealing with nine or ten 
different businesses; consequently, besides 


90 


HER OWN DEVICES 


knowing company administrations thor- 
oughly, including winding up, I ’m familiar 
with nine or ten different trades. Take me 
on wood, iron, aluminium, drugs, electric 
motors, and artificial incubators, and one or 
two other things, and I know 'em back- 
wards. That ’s a rare thing at my age. Sup- 
pose I 'd gone to college — I could have got an 
exhibition at St. Vedast's — well, what 
should I have been doing now ? schoolmaster- 
ing or tutoring at best ; as it is ” 

At this point Mrs. Stanier and Susan re- 
turned, the first flushed, the other angry. 

" You T1 pardon our keeping you so long,” 
said Mrs. Stanier, " but we Ve had a bit of 

an upset. The girl 's willing ” 

" That T1 do, mamma, ” interrupted Susan. 

Mr. Bewick won't care for the details. '' 
She smiled at Lucien to soften the formal 
Mister, and caught him admiring her blouse 
gorge-de-][)igeon, 

“ The ‘ Trained Servants' Supply ' would 
have prevented this kind of thing, '' said Mr. 
Stanier, observing his hair in the glass. 
'' We had got so far, Mr. Bewick, as to know 
of all the worthless servants in W. , S.W., 
and N. W. postal districts. The directors 


HER OWN DEVICES 


91 


gave way before the complaints, and demands 
for compensation. ‘ Live it down, ’ I said ; 
‘ we Ve got our experience and made our mis- 
takes, now we can profit by them. ’ But they 
felt it impossible to live down the case of the 
cook who had gone with her sweetheart to a 
Mansion House ball with the tickets intended 
for the family. After that, ladies lost con- 
fidence in the company. Yet I still think it 
one of my best ideas. ” 

Mrs. Stanier enlivened the interval with 
recollections of her servants, till Alice an- 
nounced that dinner was ready this time. 
Lucien offered his arm to Mrs. Stanier. 

" Oh, never mind that ; it ’s go as you please 
with us ’cept when my husband has a busi- 
ness dinner, and then there ’s always a jam in 
the doorway. ” 

The dinner-table had been decorated and 
laid out according to the directions of the 
lady who wrote the “ How to Entertain ” col- 
umn in Gentle Dames. The alternative 
direction, this can be done more cheaply 

in j and looks nearly as well, ” had been 

carefully followed and reinforced by Susan's 
aid; she had all a woman's natural taste. 
As Lucien noticed nothing remarkable except 


92 


HER OWN DEVICES 


a strip of soft matting with alternate squares 
of yellow and red in the famous Carnatic style 
which blazed along the centre of the table, 
the effort may be regarded as successful. 

Conversation ranged widely. It included 
inaccurate recollections of things in the 
paper promptly challenged and miscorrected, 
Susan’s prospects of success once on the stage, 
the merits of the many different likenesses of 
her, whether Alice would get into the Post 
Office, and the private lives of actresses 
famous or obscure. 

The ho7^s d' oeuvres and table appointments 
were charged with memories. There was a 
cucumber cutter which sliced the pears, and 
a pepper mill which set the teeth on edge ; 
there was a patent mustard, and an improved 
salt, and strange creatures of metallic flavour 
from tins. These and others had their histo- 
ries, written by Eegistrars. 

'' Mr. Bewick, ” asked Sylvain, are you 
fond of fancy edibles? Try some potted 
Iguana. Oh, it ’s right enough. We eat it 
like butter. The pater took two or three 
cases and some buffalo marrow -bones as 
against director’s fees of the Delicacies Com- 
pany ; did n’t you, father ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


93 


'' It ought to have done, that company, ” 
said Mr. Stanier, “ but the Iguana spoilt it. 
I don’t know whether there ’s a season for the 
Iguana, or whether it has a poisonous congener. 
At all events, we had a whole consignment 
condemned, and newspaper correspondence. ” 
This reminiscence dimmed his bright confi- 
dence for a few moments. 

" I don’t say Mr. Stanier ’s any cleverer 
than other men, ” whispered Mrs. Stanier to 
Bewick, '' but for noticing and imagining 
things, he ’s one in a million. I always say 
he ’d ’ve done well as a poet. He ’ll cheer up 
in a minute, he ’s as buoyant as a nautilus. ” 
Susan was relieved when dinner was over. 
All the time she thought Lucien was criticis- 
ing everything. She admired and resented 
his way of assuming that everything was as 
it should be. He always did that. It was 
excessively irritating, and attractive too. 
Eeally, it was a kind of conceit, and Susan 
meant to tell him so. He looked so gentle- 
manly in his evening dress, talked so easily 
on her mother’s topics,, and appeared so much 
interested in her father’s finance, that Susan 
admired him more than ever. 

The men went to smoke in Mr. Stanier’s 


94 


HER OWN DEVICES 


study, or office as he rightly called it. He 
pointed out how completely and compactly it 
was furnished as a place of business. He 
was proud of his talent for method. 

Various sizes of paper, you see, Mr. 
Bewick, and envelopes, lettered files, &c. 
&c. ; nothing that other people can’t get, but 
they don’t. The Postal Guide for the cur- 
rent quarter. On one occasion my familiarity 
with the Guide saved a law suit. In those 
drawers, numbered and dated, are the corre- 
spondence with each of my companies. ” 

He walked about talking, Lucien thought, 
quite naturally, showing the little devices he 
used to make the most of the small room, 
referring to odd experiences, old ideas that 
had failed, others that had succeeded with 
other men, and explaining new ideas with 
such combined enthusiasm and discretion, 
that they were quite unintelligible. 

'' Coffee in the garden, papa, ” said Alice, 
entering. Come. Susan says you ’re all to 
come, and you ’re not to swamp Mr. Bewick 
with figures. How you ’ve been talking, ” 
she said, smoothing his bushy back hair 
through which he had run his fingers so that 
it stood out like a halo. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


95 


We are coming, ” replied her father, as 
Alice and her mother went out. Susan 
thinks I shall bore you, Mr. Bewick. I \e 
a had habit of thinking that what interests 
me interests every one. Do you think Alice 
like me ? ” he asked suddenly. 

'' Not so much as your other daughter. ” 

" In appearance, no ; in disposition, yes. 
She has my love of order and method, more 
perseverance though, less imagination. Not 
so good-looking and adventurous as Susan, 
but more hard-working. She keeps us all 
straight. Clever, too, with figures and lan- 
guage, a great manager. She 's working 
very hard for this examination. She ’ll 
get in. ” 

They sat in the garden talking and smok- 
ing till twilight became dusk and till dark- 
ness followed dusk, obliterating the boundary 
walls so that the dim foliage made one vast 
pleasaunce. 

“ You ’re a great friend of Susan’s, aren’t 
you ? ” said Alice, as Lucien helped her to 
take the chairs in. '' I ’m glad I ’ve seen 
you; I like to know or to see all Susan’s 
friends. You think she ’s clever, don’t 
you ? ” 


96 


HER OWN DEVICES 


" Undeniably clever, ” said Lncien. “ She 
can” — he hesitated conscientiously. 

'' Well, Mr. Bewick, what can she do ? 
She can’t do anything. She can’t sing or act 
or paint, ” continued Alice, resting a moment. 
'' Still she ’s clever, not in doing anything, 
but in herself, in her head. ” 

It was too dark for Lucien to see her face, 
but he thought she was smiling ; and when 
she stood beside him at the piano while he 
played bits from the opera, Lucien had the 
impression that she smiled curiously when 
he was not looking at her. 

'' Eehearsal at eleven, isn’t it?” said 
Susan, as she went a little way down the 
road with him. '' You ’ve not been bored. 
Luce — Mr. Bewick ? ” She laughed at the 
formal name. '' Luce, you understand, I must 
behave before people; you know, don’t you? 
Has it been a bore. Luce ? ” 

“ I ’ve been very happy, Susan. I have 
really. ” He took her hand, and she held 
his. 

" Pity we ’re in the road, isn’t it?” she 
said, looking into his eyes. There ’s no 
hurry, is there. Luce ? ” 

Still she held his hand as if loth for him 


HER OWN HE VICES 


97 


to go. It was very quiet now. Neither 
spoke. Susan looked pale ; her hair seemed 
black, her pulse beat against his hand. Sud- 
denly she released it, saying lightly, " To- 
morrow at eleven,” just as Sylvain, in not 
quite noiseless shoes, stepped to her side. 

‘‘ I’ll come to the ’bus with you,” he said. 
'' Coming, Susie ? ” 

" In my slippers ! ” exclaimed Susan, 
retiring. 

At lunch the next day Susan’s mood was 
different — matter-of-fact and chilly. After 
tea she revived, and in St. James’s Park dis- 
cussed the dinner-party with her usual free- 
dom. She was anxious about Lucien’s 
opinion of her family, and accused him of 
being fastidious and superior, of being 
easily bored, and of insincerity for conceal- 
ing it. 

“ Eeally, I enjoyed it immensely,” he pro- 
tested. 

‘‘ Oh, don’t speak as if you expected to 
meet a lot of savages ! ” she exclaimed. 

Very well, then; I sha’n’t tell you of a 
mistake you made,” he replied. 

How you watch me ! Tell me, Lucien. 
Was it another ephemerial — ephemeral, is 
7 


98 


HER OWN DEVICES 


it ? I ’ll drop that word ; it ’s dangerous. 
Well, was it? I like to know my faults,” 
said Susan. 

'' Well, the author of ‘ Hudibras ’ was n’t a 
bishop, nor was he called Berkeley. ” 

Was n’t he ? Did I say he was ? Oh, I 
see you mean that — ' no matter ’ — story. 
Glad you told me. Butler and Berkeley, 
two B. ’s; confusing, isn’t it? Sometimes 
one picks up things at the wrong end. Did 
you notice anything else ? ” 

'' Only a different Susan, a home Susan, 
which I have put next the society Susan. ” 
And where do you put the real Susan ? ” 

‘‘ Next my heart, ” said Lucien, too 
promptly. 

'' Do you talk like that because of last 
night ? ” she exclaimed. '' Then you make a 
mistake. I ’m going by ’bus, ” she continued, 
as she rose from the chair. '' I sha’n’t be 
down in the daytime to-morrow ; eight will 
be time enough for the dress-rehearsal I 
suppose ? ” 

The farce is called for seven, ” said 
Lucien, as they walked towards the Horse 
Guards. 

He did not see her again till the next 


HER OWN DEVICES 


99 


morning, when they were going through the 
first piece. The make-up and the footlights 
and a dress of electric blue brought out 
Susan’s beauty into cameo-like distinctness. 
The curves of a straw hat and the masses of 
glowing hair were an outer and inner frame 
for the fine lines of her face. Lucien had not 
seen her on the stage till now. The new ex- 
perience, the emphasising of a familiar per- 
sonality, thrilled him strangely, yet not so 
much as to check an instinctive protest against 
an abruptness of gesture and awkward- 
ness of movement Susan could not conquer. 
His perceptions of form, and to a less degree 
of colour, were uncontrollably impartial. In 
his position most men would have looked 
through a haze of sentiment. Lucien’s senses 
were too fine to allow him to do that, and 
perhaps this recognition of Susan’s limita- 
tions made her hold on him the greater. At 
the end he knew that Susan looked her best 
in repose ; she could not manage the broken 
lines of movement. Of course, with him, 
the aesthetic qualities obscured the emo- 
tional, and extinguished the intellectual. 
He could not help noticing the inadequacy of 
her voice ; but how far she expressed the feel- 


100 


HER OWN DEVICES 


ings of a young lady poised between love and 
duty, he did not attempt to estimate. 

The actors hurried away to change for the 
opera, while the scene swiftly ascended to the 
flies. Kamidge, shouting, running, and 
moving furniture, was everywhere at once, or 
his lilac-gloved hands seemed to be. New 
lilac gloves at dress-rehearsal were a tradition 
with him ; some people, like Shapley, might 
come in evening dress, or like Laurence 
might make no difference, but Eamidge, 
always trls soigne on these occasions, com- 
pleted a careful toilet with gloves invariably 
lilac. That after the first shift he looked like 
an upholsterer’s man working in his Sunday 
clothes did not matter. The point was to 
start in the right spirit. 

Lucien went to Eose and Horace Shepherd 
in the dress circle. 

“ What a pretty scene, Lucien !” said Eose. 

Have you settled whether it ’s Morocco or 
Algiers yet ? Does it remind you ? ” she said, 
in a lower tone. It did, though Lucien did 
not want to be put in mind of their wedding 
trip, and scarcely returned the pressure of her 
hand. 

Bewick, do you think those ships are 


HER OWN DEVICES 


101 


right ?” asked Shepherd. They 've different 
courses, all of them, and yet the wind strikes 
their sails in the same way. We never get 
such accommodating winds, do we, Mrs. 
Bewick ? ” 

'' From Africa always something new. ” 
Lucien, you know why I like Horace ? ” 
said Eose. 

“ So difficult not to. ” 

" ISTo, it’s because he’s myriad-minded,” 
she continued. '' He expresses general hu- 
manity. At the first dress-rehearsal he ’s 
been to he becomes critical ; he knows how 
everything ought to be done, how the scenes 
should be arranged, how the piece should be 
written, how the people should act — all 
except Miss Stanier, of course. Isn’t that 
what every one does, or would do ? ” 

“ Oh, that ’s how he reveals Shakespeare, 
is it ? ” 

'' All right, Bewick, I ’ll tell you after- 
wards, ” said Shepherd. “ Didn’t Miss Stan- 
ier act well ? and is n’t she handsome ? ” 

Eeminds one of a Fragonard ! Sevres 
porcelain ! Venetian hair ! that ’s what I ’ve 
had to endure, ” laughed Eose. Poor 
Horace, I must introduce you to a gentleman 
named Dugald Miller. ” 


102 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“ She did n’t tell me she was engaged, ” said 
Shepherd. 

" You anticipate ; you are so eager, you 
men. You have three stages : Infatuation 
Engagement, and Marriage. ” 

Next, please. They ’re four, ” said Shep- 
herd. 

'' Then happiness, ” said Eose quickly. 
She disliked the jokes against marriage. 

Engagement ’s not nearly so interesting as 
what goes before. Dugald Miller ’s going 
before. Ask Miss Stanier about agricultural 
chemistry, Horace. ” 

‘‘ Oh ! that ’s his line, is it ? Where- 
abouts ? ” said Shepherd. 

Pity him, Lucien ! ” replied Eose. 
'' Never mind, Horace, you ’ll get over it. 
Lucien, tell me who that lady is ? Oh, that ’s 
Miss Yanlore, is it? She looks clever. 
Does n’t the theatre look odd, Horace without 
an audience ? Like a ball-room without the 
dancers. ” 

Except in the stalls, where some of the 
company in their stage-dress were sitting, 
and in the pit, where sat a few of the em- 
ployes, the brilliant theatre was bare. The 
seats stood out barely in lines and curves of 


HER OWN DEVICES 


103 


red plush or crimson baize. The groups in 
the stalls shifted their colours as things were 
joined or left by Algerine Arab or captive. 
Eed and blue and yellow, entire or in stripes, 
on various grounds thrown up by the dark 
mass of the orchestra and the soft red of the 
fauteuils came, paused, and went in the rose- 
strained glow of electric lamps. 

Behind the curtain rose the voice of Eam- 
idge, above the bustle of stage men and the 
footfall of chorus ladies. 

Shapley took the conductor’s seat, tapped 
with his baton ; the tuning ceased, and then 
after a little pause Lucien’s overture began. 
It was a summary of the opera. The trium- 
phant entry of the returning corsairs, their 
welcome from their countrymen, and the wail 
of Christian captives, shot through and held 
together by the love-songs of the Princess and 
the Spanish captain fell in swathes of ordered 
sound. It was well given, and got a round 
of applause. 

All very well, ” whispered Shapley to the 
leader as they waited Ea midge’s signal for 
the opening chorus, '' but too musical for the 
public. We sha’n’t get a hand on the night. ” 

Then the chorus of Algerines gave their 


104 


HER OWN DEVICES 


welcome to the victors ; and the first act went 
smoothly on, while Eamidge made hurried 
notes of entrances and business. 

Mrs. Baumann sang and acted admirably. 
Eamidge and Shapley congratulated her sin- 
cerely when the curtain fell on the discovery 
of her meeting with Don Gesualdo, the hero. 

'' Stop, ladies, ” cried Eamidge to the 
chorus. '' Eing up, please. One or two 
things a bit wrong. End of opening chorus, 
Mr. Shapley. No, you don’t go off like a 
regiment of soldiers. Break up gently ; melt 
away like a crowd. Why, you were all right 
yesterday. Try it again. We ’ve got all 
night before us. ” 

And there he kept them till they got it 
right, and so with other things ; and in the 
chorus-room they called him hard names, and 
scoffed at the gloves of lilac. 

The second act was interrupted by a differ- 
ence between Shapley and the tenor, and some 
difficulty with the seashore. These had been 
got over; the Princess had just delivered her 
touching farewell to the home of her child- 
hood, when Laurence called to Mrs. Baumann 
from a group of leaders. 

'' An African telegram — reply paid. I 


HER OWN DEVICES 


105 


thought it would be from Mr. Baumann, and 
urgent perhaps, ” he whispered. 

Mrs. Baumann paled under her colour. 

It was from Mr. Baumann, and urgent, and 
Teutonically brutal. 

“ Withdraw my consent to your acting. 
Don’t want to be made ridiculous. — Carl 
Baumann. ” 

“ Bead, ” she said, holding out the trem- 
bling message to Laurence. 

" What a blackguard thing to do, ” he ex- 
claimed. ''Why couldn’t he have said so 
a week ago, or yesterday ? ” 

" I feared this all the time, ” said Mrs. 
Baumann. " There are reasons why I cannot 
take my own course. I would, but that ’s 
what he wants. I should like to ! I ’d give 
anything to do it. Isn’t it cruel, Mr. Lau- 
rence ? Is n’t it mean ? Is n’t it German ? ” 
she added bitterly. 

She shook with indignation, and turned 
away. Xaurence waited in pity. 

“ It was my treat,” she said, looking at 
him with tears in eyes and voice ; '' my 
promised pleasure, my long promised pleas- 
ure. I longed for it so. Studied and prac- 
tised and waited very long. And it ’s my 


106 


HER OWN DEVICES 


own piece ; and they say I ’m good in it. 
You think so, don’t you — really — honestly 
now ? You don’t flatter, Mr. Laurence ? ” 

‘‘ You converted me long ago, Mrs. Bau- 
mann. You would have made a real success. 
I am very, very sorry for your disappoint- 
ment. You can’t go on. Ah, well you know 
best. We ’d better stop the rehearsal and 
tell Eamidge.” 

Eamidge and the ballet-master were direct- 
ing the kaleidoscopic ballet, the chief item in 
the revels given by the Dey in honour of 
his daughter’s marriage with the Prince of 
Morocco. 

We ’ve four minutes more,” he said, in 
reply to Laurence’s whisper. “Tell the little 
lady I must see this through, Bayaderes now, 
Solano,” he whispered to the ballet-master as 
the bright cohorts of the ballet sw’ept in rays 
of colour down the stage, faced the footlights, 
reversed, and then wheeled in a haze of 
throbbing spectral electric colours. 

“ Chromatics right at last, Solano. That ’s 
all right, ladies. Excellent ! Capital ! Ee- 
member your times to-morrow. You’ll be 
off in a few minutes and get a rest,” said 
Eamidge to the panting girls as he went to- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


107 


wards Shapley. '' Oh, you Bedouins ! You he 
still too fast. How often am I to tell you to 
take your time from the band. Like to try 
it again, Shapley,” he suggested, reviving the 
ancient unpopularity of the children of the 
desert, who were audibly reviled by the other 
races. 

Fortunately Mrs. Baumann and Laurence 
and Lucien distracted Eamidge’s attention. 
He was aghast at the news, declared that 
the piece must be postponed, and washed 
his hands of all responsibility. 

“ Hang it all, Eamidge, we don't want to 
give the whole thing away. Come to my 
room or Mrs. Baumann’s and talk the matter 
over. You ’re alarming the whole theatre,” 
said Laurence, moving away. 

But it was too late. The band and the 
chorus had seen and heard too much. When 
Mrs. Baumann and the others returned, every 
one knew that something was wrong. The 
theatre was full of rumours, vague or precise. 
The general opinion, founded on experience, 
was that the money was not right, though 
the romantic temperament inclined to some- 
thing revealing about Mrs. Baumann. Ap- 
prehension was slightly calmed when Miss 


108 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Vanlore took Mrs. Baumann’s part for the 
rest of the second act. Lucien sent Susan 
a note saying he had recommended her for 
Miss Vanlore’s part, and then went to Eose, 
told her what had happened, and asked 
Shepherd to see her home directly the act 
was over. 

I ’d rather stay here, Lucien,” declared 
Eose. I sha’n’t he frightened if there is any 
quarrelling.” 

There ’s no need for you to stay,” replied 
Lucien. ^'We sha’n’t do the other act to- 
night, so the lights ’ll be put out, and every 
room in the place is full.” 

I can come to yours.” 

Yes, I thought of that ; but there ’ll be 
Laurence, and Eamidge, and Mrs. Baumann, 
and perhaps others to see. If there was a 
row I should n’t like you to be there.” 

'^Just as you like, Lucien,” said Eose 
unsubmissively. 

I think it best, dear,” he replied. ‘‘Wait 
till I get back. Shepherd; I shall come as 
soon as I can.” 

Shepherd commended her avoidance of a 
row. 

“ My dear Horace, it is n’t that. I ’m not 


HER OWN DEVICES 


109 


fond of rows. I don’t like to think Lucien ’s 
there by himself. Oh no, I ’m not wise ! I 
gave way to please Lucien. hTow I’m 
miserable.” 

The rehearsal went on, and at the end of 
the second act a call was announced for 
the next night. There was not to be a 
postponement. 

Lucien was locking his desk, the theatre 
was nearly quiet, there had been unpleasant 
scenes. 

He was not used to violent demands for 
money, to absurd imputations, to wrangling 
chorus-masters and stage-carpenters. The 
abrupt withdrawal of Mrs. Baumann, at 
Laurence’s suggestion, had confirmed some 
suspicions about the money. Laurence, see- 
ing that Mrs. Baumann was distressed, had 
seen her home, and done his best to reassure 
her. When he returned, and was asked for 
money on account by Solano, he cheerfully 
refused to pay any one anything. 

Nothing due till Friday, when every one 
will be paid,” was all he would say either to 
threats or entreaties, though he went to the 
chorus of his own accord, to let them know 
it was all right, and then came to tell Lucien 


110 


HER OWN DEVICES 


not to advance anything. “ They T1 come to 
you for sure,” he said. '' Eefer them to 
me. Especially Solano. I Ve seen the girls. 
They ’re all right — a bit scared. Eamidge 
gave us away beautifully, did n’t he ? Poor 
Mrs. Baumann ! It ’s very rough on her. 
She feels it awfully. Papa Baumann must 
be a nice kind of animal. Oh, I must see 
Miss Stanier about her dress. Good-night, 
Mr. Bewick, there ’s no need to cheer you up, 
thank Heaven.” He lighted a cigarette, and 
in a minute Lucien heard him giving direc- 
tions outside Susan’s room about the altera- 
tions in Miss Vanlore’s dress. She replied 
with questions. At last Laurence went 
away. Then the door of the band-room 
opened, as if some one had been waiting for 
Laurence to go. There w^as the sound of 
many voices, some one came up the stairs 
and knocked at Lucien’s room. It was 
Shapley. He said the orchestra wanted to 
have an interview with Mr. Bewick. Lucien 
went down, and had a chat with them. They 
appealed to him as one of themselves to 
guarantee their salaries He declined. Then 
there was a general discussion, and threat- 
ened secessions. It was a strange scene. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


111 


The dim light, the crowded room, the musi- 
cians packing their instruments, lighting 
pipes, and talking in different languages. A 
pulpy German declared that the whole thing 
was a fraud, every one concerned swindlers. 
Lucien demanded an apology ; he felt like 
flying at the man, but that sort of thing 
would only complete the vulgarity of the 
affair. He found that a threat was enough 
to bring the German to his senses. Then he 
returned to his own room. 

This vulgar squabble, following the inter- 
rupted rehearsal, came upon a man whose 
nerves were already near their breaking 
strain. A little thing will upset a man in 
that state. It was not Mrs. Baumann’s re- 
tirement, nor the subsequent interview, that 
unnerved him. In themselves and ordinarily 
they would not have affected Lucien. But 
coming when his wearing passion had weak- 
ened his self-control, they left him at the 
mercy of events. Whether Miss Yanlore 
succeeded or not was a small matter to 
Lucien. Laurence had prophesied that the 
show would go smoothly enough, and the 
result proved that he was right. Lucien was 
not thinking of the first night. At this 


112 


HER OWN DEVICES 


moment he thought of one thing only, to see 
Susan, to speak to her of his love, to win her 
by force of feeling, by the rushing words that 
crowded his brain ! He could hear himself 
saying them, could see Susan surprised, angry, 
and then, as her mood changed, he saw the 
hard lines soften, saw her eyes kindly at 
last, and heard her speak an unknown 
tongue. 

With some trouble he had braced himself 
sufficiently to set his room in order, to lock 
up his desk, and put the score away, doing 
each thing with the exactitude of a somnam- 
bulist. 

He was directing a letter when he heard a 
faint knock at the door, and Susan entered. 
‘‘ See me to the station. Luce,” she said, “ I 'm 
going by train.” 

She walked towards him, and stopped 
between the desk and the window. She was 
looking a little pale, he thought, or perhaps 
it was the effect of a gas-jet on her glowing 
hair. She didn’t say anything, and Lucien 
hurried on with his writing, and directed the 
envelope to Bayswater instead of Brixton. 

It was only about copying music, and 
really did n’t matter. He thought of leaving 


HER OWN DEVICES 


113 


it over, but bad written another envelope 
before he decided. 

Susan was very silent and still. At least 
Lucien felt she was. There was no reason 
why she should speak or move. He won- 
dered how she was looking while he wrote 
the address. The room was small and close 
and dark, except for the burner over Susan’s 
head. Lucien had a sense of something 
going on, something at work, something 
about to happen. The room was oppressive 
with a strange oppression. He was writing 
very slowly, and had to be very careful not 
to put a wrong name. 

The silence was irritating beyond measure ; 
it made the burning of the gas audible, and 
the voices in the street distinct. He felt it 
curious to have a silent, unmoving person just 
near him, watching him, perhaps. At last 
he finished, and looked up at Susan. 

She was standing in profile to him, her 
eyelids lowered, her head drooping, and the 
curve of her neck apparent. She breathed in 
long slow movement, her breast rose and fell 
perceptibly, her form seemed fluid. 

Lucien went to her as one that is called. 
He had a glimpse of her eyes through short 
8 


114 


HER OWN DEVICES 


lashes. Then he had his arm round her, and 
had kissed the willing lips again and again, 
then she slipped away. 

''Lucien, you said only one,” she cried 
smiling, with cheeks no longer pale, hut 
she would not stay — indeed she seemed 
hurried. 

I heard you in the band-room,” she said, 
as they turned into the street. “ Then I saw 
you come out, and you looked so disgusted, so 
contemptuous — is that right ? — that I 
thought I would come to see you before I 
went. I meant to ride ; see, I have no hat, 
only this lace thing.” 

They got out of the slum, and passed the 
quiet streets with the last century houses. 
Lucien felt his spirits rise to rapture. He 
had no sense of things external ; he had shed 
the outer world. His work, his art, and his 
wife slipped into nothingness. Only around 
and . above and below was there a glory 
incomprehensible. Susan was talking ; he 
could see her lips move through the veil; 
what she said he partly heard. This ecstasy 
had never come to him before ; this sharp 
enhancing joy he had never tasted. It swept 
him to strange and dazzling realms. He 


HER OWN DEVICES 


115 


touched the origins of life, and the issues of 
death were plain to him. 

You are not listening, Luce,” said Susan, 
looking up to him. She seemed short with 
the veil instead of a hat. Lucien looked on 
the friendly green eyes, tender now, loving, 
he thought. 

“ Go on, dear ; I was thinking of you. I 
want to thank you, hut that seems so im- 
possible. Susan, how good you are to 
me I” 

‘'Lucien, it wasn’t an impulse. I had 
thought it over before — before to-night ; and 
then, when the row came, I thought of you, 
and again, when you went into the band- 
room, and I heard the door shut and the men 
begin to talk.” 

“ Susan, say you love me.” 

“No, I won’t. I don’t love you.” 

Lucien laughed, looking at her smiling 
face. 

“ Have it your own way,” he said. 

They walked on and on, up and down 
unfamiliar streets, till they suddenly came 
out in the broad road near the Gardens. At 
first Susan would not come in. 

“ Why not, though ? ” she asked consenting. 


116 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Lucien was putting the key in the inner 
door. She stayed his hand, and lifted up her 
face to be kissed. 

‘"How about the only one, Luce?” She 
laughed as they entered, and Eose came out 
eagerly. 

“ It ’s you, Lucien ? And Susan ! Come 
in, dear,” she said, as she kissed her. 


CHAPTEE VI 

The first night had come and gone, and the 
piece had some success, for which Eamidge 
and Shapley got the credit. Lucien and 
Mrs. Baumann were charged with lack of 
knowledge of the stage. One critic said that 
after Lucien’s music the higher mathematics 
were a recreation. Miss Vanlore made a 
great hit, and the low comedian’s topical gags 
delighted a public which finds in incongruity 
the most intelligible humour. Miss Stanier 
was complimented on her appearance and 
attitudes, and if the musical critics said she 
couldn’t sing, the dramatic critics redressed 
the balance by saying she could n’t act. 
Susan said she was better-looking than some 
ladies whose names she did not suppress, and 
that the critics were beasts. 

Lucien was quite indifferent. His music 
had been well rendered, and that satisfied 
him. The success that Eose and he had 


118 


HER OWN HE VICES 


built SO much upon was nothing to him 
now. 

Eose had two opinions. The opinion of 
the partisan or wife, who vehemently de- 
clared Lucien’s right to a success as if it 
were one of the privileges secured by Magna 
Charta, and the opinion of the fine expert, 
who saw and knew exactly what was want- 
ing in the composer’s work. 

“ It ’s a little too good for human nature’s 
daily food,” she said to Shepherd, who judged 
dogmatically of music without knowing a 
note. He learned it in bulk by hearing a 
great deal, and was oddly right and wrong in 
his judgments. 

Lucien’s music seems to come from a great 
distance,” he said. "‘It’s the sort of thing 
we should lilce, if we were only good enough.” 

I did n’t mean that it was cold or formal,” 
she replied, as her husband came in. We ’re 
cutting you up, dear.” 

“Don’t overdo it, or I sha’n’t be able to 
put myself together again, and then you’ll 
get no more work out of me,” said Lucien. 
“Go on, Eose, she does know, Shepherd, 
really she does.” 

He was singularly open to suggestion now. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


119 


he let Eose alter and transpose as she liked, 
and admitted improvement. His artistic 
sensitiveness was dead, and his professional 
ambition extinct. He had allowed Fleetwood 
Lloyd to go to Kersanton, and let Eose think 
it unavoidable. He had begun to deceive 
her. Since the dress-rehearsal he had lived 
in a glowing stupor, where everything but 
that walk and those kisses were unreal. He 
had nailed his rudder, so that he could take 
only one course. His work he got through 
resolutely, and treated Eose and his friends 
as he remembered he used to. He contrived 
to see Susan at least once every day, he had 
understudy rehearsals especially to meet her ; 
he agreed to a preposterous country tour, just 
to get the pretext of superintending rehear- 
sals; he changed his luncheon hour as it 
suited her ; he came or left late or early just 
as it enabled them to meet. 

As often as Susan thought safe he came to 
the Lenseum, and saw her home in the bright, 
rubber-tired hansoms she was so fond of. 
But she was cautious — very cautious. She 
would not go to the Gardens too often, not 
much more than she did before. Usually she 
came with a pretext or flower. She was care- 


120 


HER OWN DEVICES 


ful to arrange when to avow a meeting, if 
they had been seen together by any one 
likely to see Eose. Never be told of, Luce.” 

They had marvellous luck, though they 
went about tremendously. If by chance 
Susan met a friend she always introduced 
‘‘Mr. Bewick, the composer of our opera,*' 
emphasising the business quality. She was 
full of resource. She got furious when she 
found he had carried a letter addressed to her 
about with him all day. 

“ Suppose you *d had an accident and that 
had been found. No, I T1 keep it now,” she 
declared. 

She wrote many little letters, with “Yours 
always, S. S.” at the bottom. She conciliated 
Sharpe. She did not sign telegrams, and the 
office of origin was not in St. John's Wood. 
She had studied the “Postal Guide” (“to 
help papa”) to some advantage. She was 
proud of these accomplishments, and Lucien, 
if he did not admire them, at all events did 
not condemn. But he never quite got used 
to Susan's treatment of Eose. 

When Susan, wdth his last letter in her 
bosom, embraced his wife, he shuddered. It 
was n't clever to deceive the unsuspecting. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


121 


and though he was doing it silently, yet the 
spectacle revolted. Just for a moment he 
thought of remonstrating with Susan, but 
the next moment the unimportance of every 
one else was as strong as ever. It had been 
like that with him since the day Susan came 
to his office. At times he had a dull con- 
sciousness that he was doing a shameful 
thing. These faint reproaches came from a 
dreamland of fantastic ideas, which had no 
more relation to life than the fairy tales of 
childhood. Lucien's condition is met by the 
moralists with recipes sovereign for those who 
have not the complaint — some day doctors 
will study it ; at present only poets under- 
stand what Venus toute entiere h sa jproie 
attacMe really means. 

If he could not shake free before he could 
not now, when Susan had become caressing. 
She let him kiss her, but preferred to run her 
hand through his hair to put it straight, she 
said, and then her fingers would trickle down 
his face like scented air, while she laughed 
and called him darling Luce. She had a 
way of saying '' dear ” unconsciously, as 
if it expressed an habitual thought, which 
was sweeter than deliberate affection. Yet 


122 


HER OWN DEVICES 


throughout it all Susan never told her love. 
Lucien could not get her to say she loved 
him. She shrank from the words as if they 
would hind her. 

''Judge me by my actions; aren’t they 
enough ? ” she said one evening, as their 
hansom turned into the Wellington Eoad, 
and she lifted her face to be kissed. " Not 
what I say, but what I do.” 

She had dropped nearly all pretence with 
him, not quite all, but as much as she could. 
She asked him to correct her language, to 
tell her the right books to read, the origin of 
the scrap-knowledge she had picked up. She 
was curious about the customs of respectable 
people. She had a great opinion of respec- 
tability as a ruling force, and a horror of being 
subjected to it. She took the temperament 
of Catherine of Eussia into suburban drawing- 
rooms. She prided herself, and amused 
Lucien, by a manner which every one who 
did not know her described as natural. 

She was the equilibrium of opposite ten- 
dencies. The result was nothing. Her in- 
clinations were checked by her caution, her 
calculations were neutralised by her impulses. 
This character came out in her art. She 


HER OWN DEVICES 


123 


could actually do nothing, whether it were 
acting, singing, or composing. A balanced 
mediocrity, she had not the energy of talent 
or the patience of industry. In class, station, 
character, and action, Susan was intermediate. 
A little lower than the ladies, she topped the 
chorus. She was of those who look at rich 
men’s tables, and do not sit at them, who 
make up penultimate fashions in cheaper 
materials ; the class who envy the wealthy, 
and long for a luxury they have never known, 
and who do not know why they are ill at 
ease if they get into a society which they 
are only superficially fit for. 

Lucien knew Susan now, and she did not 
grate on him as she used to, and he had got 
down to her ; still sometimes she disgusted 
him. Once when they had contrived a dinner 
at a restaurant she deliberately thanked him 
— thanked him as if he had fed her, or given 
her money’s worth. And she thought she 
had done the right thing. 

The time slipped away, the days of the 
Captive’s Bride ” were running out, the 
dull, hazy weather was breaking at last. 
The autumn season appeared in the news- 
papers and drapers’ shops. 


124 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Horace Shepherd had compensated himself 
for a rainy holiday by taking a cottage on the 
rural fringe of London. Two rainless days in 
one week raised his spirits. 

You must come, Mrs. Bewick. You want 
a change ; Lucien wants a change ; we all 
want a change. Mr. and Mrs. Valance are 
coming next week. There \s plenty of room,” 
he went on eagerly. ‘‘Well arrange the 
rooms. Here ’s a plan, a ground plan.” 

“ Clearly, there are no upper rooms,” said 
Eose. 

“ Oh, yes, there are ; but I Ve no perspec- 
tive. See that ’s your room — Lucien can 
come on the Saturday, you know — the other 
front one is for the Valances; and I say, Mrs. 
Bewick, could I ask Miss Stanier ? She 
wants a change badly.” 

“ Looking pale, is she ? ” 

“ Awfully ! Never saw a girl look so bad. 
I met her in Eegent Street the other day,” 
said Shepherd, saying nothing about Lucien. 

“ I should think she ’d like to go, Horace. 
It’s very kind of you to think of her.” 

“ What I mean to say is, can I ask her ? 
Would her people think the Valances enough ? 
They ought not to know them, ought they ? ” 


HER OWH DEVICES 


125 


There was a pause. I think they ought,” 
said Eose. 

‘‘ You know her people ? ” 

Eose bowed. 

‘‘ Mrs. Bewick, would you ask them. 
Would you mind? It would be immensely 
good of you ? ” 

« Why did n ’t you say so before ? ” 

These things are so much better when 
they’re spontaneous,” he replied, laughing. 

‘‘ You might write and say ” 

My dear Horace ! ” 

I beg your pardon. Of course you know 
what to say ; but I thought ” 

‘‘ Thanks ; that ’s enough. You 11 never be 
loved for your manners, Horace, but you Ve a 
beautiful heart,” said Eose. ''Ill arrange 
about Miss Stanier, and let you know.” 

" Could n’t Lucien get a day or two off ? ” 
suggested Shepherd. "He’s looking rather 
Londony.” 

" He ’s been away a good deal already — 
about the play ; he has rehearsals still,” said 
Eose. " I think he ’s worried about the 
Kersanton business.” 

" Is n’t he going ? ” 

"Fleetwood Lloyd’s going. Isn’t it a 


126 


HER OWN DEVICES 


shame, Horace ? All the designs are Lucien’s. 
Lloyd has talked Mr. Philipson over. The 
old gentleman’s rather afraid of Lloyd, I 
think,” said Eose. And he ’s been ill you 
know. Fleetwood is studying the periods 
now. Count de Froncemagne knows more 
architecture than Lloyd — a great deal more- 
Fleetwood’s very good for getting business 
and going about talking ; but as for archi- 
tecture — well, that ’s different, is n’t it ? ” 

Shepherd had to go before Eose had tired 
of showing that there was only one English 
architect who could carry out Count de 
Froncemagne’s glorious idea of restoring the 
Abbaye de Kersanton to the state it was in 
before the Eevolution. 

'' Think, Horace ; an eleventh century 
church added to in every style up to 1643 ! 
A rival of the Creizker ! We made a tour in 
Brittany the year after we were married. 
The Count’s place, with the remains of the 
Abbey, is near St. Pol de Ldon and Morlaix 
— dreamy places both. It ’s like living in 
The Earthly Paradise ! And we did our 
churches well. That ’s where an architect 
husband has the best of a soldier ! ” 

Soldier first, then ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


127 


Soldier second always. Actual Lucien 
first,” said Eose. “Good-bye, Horace. Ill 
let you know about Miss Stanier. Ob, per- 
haps she ’d like to bring Dugald Miller 1 ” 

“ Who is he ? She never mentions him.” 

“Those are the dangerous ones,” said 
Eose. “ He ’s a nice boy — a great friend of 
Susan’s, with a passion for agricultural chem- 
istry. I told you of him.” 

“ Unnatural youth.” 

“ Oh, it ’s intellectual, and not exclusive,” 
she went on. “ I think Mr. Stanier had some 
business with young Miller’s people. They 
make chemicals up in the Lakes, Susan 
says.” 

'' Euncorn, more likely.” 

“Well, yes, really it is something Lanca- 
shire or Cheshire,” replied Eose, “ Susan 
idealises. She likes things to be pretty, and 
looks at them through a haze of sentiment.” 

“ Or the fumes of chemicals,” replied Shep- 
herd. “ I don’t think we ’ll trouble the 
passionate chemist, Mrs. Bewick, thank you 
all the same.” 

“As you like, Horace. So if Susan is 
going for her usual day with Dugald at Wel- 
bridge, she can’t come with us, if you don’t 


128 


HER OWN DEVICES 


care about her coining. You see Mr. Miller ’s 
at an agricultural college at Welbridge ; Mr. 
Stanier has something to do with a derelict 
factory there, and either he or Sylvain take 
Susan down if they’re going while term’s 
on.” 

“ They usually do go.” 

‘‘ Yes, it ’s got to be a custom, Susan says. 
Welbridge is the loveliest English village she 
ever saw.” 

‘‘Fumes again,” replied Shepherd. “Well, 
I must go, really. Get Miss Stanier alone if 
possible, if not do la chimiste, though I fear 
him, these learning boys are so ready to teach 
us what we have forgotten.” 

“ Chemistry, Horace ? ” 

Compulsory for London matric, you 
know. Good-bye for good this time, Eose.” 

In the end Susan accepted without men- 
tioning Mr. Miller ; Laurence obligingly had a 
matinde only on that Saturday, but Lucien 
quite unexpectedly had to take a great 
musical authority to see this opera, so he 
arranged with Susan to dine together, and go 
to Shepherd’s place by an evening train. 

They were a little late at the station, but 
were fortunate enough to get a carriage to 


HER OWN DEVICES 


129 


themselves, and indeed, might have had the 
door locked, had not Susan objected. A few 
moments before the time of starting two ladies 
and two children got in. 

We 'd better have had the door locked,” 
whispered Lucien. 

I don’t travel in locked carriages,” re- 
plied Susan. 

The train started with a jerk. A child fell 
between Lucien’s legs. He restored it to the 
woman, who put it by her side without inter- 
rupting what she was saying about the 
Ecclesiastical Commissioners, dilapidations, 
and Walter. She reported verbatim. Lucien 
met Susan’s glance. She was stifling laugh- 
ter. He looked away to prevent himself 
laughing outright. He tried to guess from 
their appearance where the ladies would get 
out. A rural suburb seemed most likely. 
At Greystoke he had almost taken leave of 
them. They did n’t move. They were blind 
to their own interests. Greystoke appeals 
to cultured people of rural tastes. There’s 
an English village green, a Christmas card 
church, and an ivy clad hostelry. Many 
people would have got out at once. Lucien 
began to despise them. Under pretext of 

9 


130 


HER OWN DEVICES 


explaining a drawing in The Architect, lie 
asked Susan to guess where they would get 
out. She told him not to speak so loudly, 
and snatched the paper away so naturally, 
that the ladies were sure they had been 
married a twelvemonth. 

Then the girl-child went to the further 
window, was told to come back, and didn’t 
take the slightest notice, but turned and 
stared at Lucien as if asking his opinion. 
Then an up-express rattled past, and the girl 
nearly lost her hat. The threat of being re- 
ported to “your uncle” brought her back. 
She scrambled on to the seat, knelt by the 
boy, whispered laboriously into his ear, and 
looked at Susan. He looked at Susan, and 
said “ Eaver,” and laughed. Then they both 
laughed. Susan said '‘little beasts” under 
her breath, and looked sympathetically at 
Lucien. The intruders lost another chance 
at Lower Park. Hot even a new church 
dwarfing its tin predecessor could tempt them, 
nor a large common so nice for children. 
Lucien could not keep himself from follow- 
ing their conversation. He got to know a 
lot about the family, but as time went on — 
the time of his journey with Susan — they 


HER OWN DEVICES 


131 


exhausted the personal topics and took a 
wider range, alighting on a current law case. 
At first it was confused with two others, then 
the reasons of it being tried in the country 
bothered them. They agreed that it was due 
to the personal intervention of the sovereign. 
Next they expounded the case under mutual 
correction — so that it sounded like an irregu- 
lar litany. They used plaintiff and defend- 
ant interchangeably, puzzling Lucien, who 
could not help getting interested. Suddenly 
he remembered that a railway carriage is the 
place to study human nature. But that he 
had arranged for. Five-and-twenty minutes 
out of fifty-two had gone. He looked at 
Susan. She was studying the advertisements 
in The Architect, Against the darkness of 
night her profile stood out softly. Opposite 
the children slept and the ladies babbled. 

At last they moved, collecting things, and 
sat in silent expectancy, as if about to testify 
for their faith’s sake. They were nearing 
their station. As the train stopped, a youth 
rushed to the window. 

Oh, Aunt Helen, mother says, will you 
go on to Hurlford, her next station — her 
carriage had to call there. I don’t know 


132 


HER OWN DEVICES 


what for, something for to-morrow’s dinner, 
I suppose. Good-bye, aunt, I ’m going back 
on my bicycle.” 

That was more than enough for Susan, 
She passed Tlie Architect to Lucien, pointing 
to an advertisement, and yielded herself to 
rocking reddening laughter. The good ladies 
stared. Lucien’s need was for language, bad 
language. He read the advertisement grimly, 
intently, till they got to Hurlford, where at 
last the ladies got out. Then he swore 
carefully. 

Lucien, why did n’t you laugh ? ” exclaimed 
Susan. “They’ll think I’m an idiot; and 
don’t use such awful language. You surprise 
me. Gentlemen don’t swear before ladies.” 

“ Eeally, I beg your pardon ; but it was 
irresistible.” 

“ But why ? Why were you in such a 
rage ? ” 

“ Don’t you know, Susan ? ” 

“Ho, I don’t ; and if you ’d calculated on 
having a carriage to ourselves, you deserve to 
be disappointed.” 

“ Well, I was — that ’s certain.” 

“ I ’m very glad of it. Eeally, Lucien, I 
don’t understand you. You behave as if I 


HER OWN DEVICES 


133 


belonged to you, and I don't, and never shall. 
Think of your wife ! ” 

Lucien's assumption of what Susan called 
proprietorial airs always upset her finely- 
balanced temper. 

I wanted to look at that waltz of yours," 
he replied. 

I did n’t bring it. I knew you ’d only 
laugh at it," said Susan, as they stopped at 
Orkley. 

“ You promised, Susan ; you promised," he 
replied, trying to persuade himself that they 
did not change here. I thought your word 
was sacred — I believed you.” 

“ One does n’t always keep a silly prom- 
ise,” she returned. ‘'Besides I am not re- 
sponsible to you.’’ 

“ Yes, you are responsible to me. You 
made the promise to me,” said Lucien, hoping 
for the guard’s whistle. 

“ I am not a bit more responsible to you 
than to any one else," she cried. She had 
the trick of treating her relations with 
Lucien as if they could be, and not be, at the 
same time. It is the argumentative form of 
eating your cake and having it — an illicit 
process dear to women. 


134 


HER OWN DEVICES 


'' As you like. We won’t discuss the mat- 
ter any more then,” said Lucien with a 
smile. 

I suppose you think it is n’t ladylike to 
break one’s word,” she continued, announcing 
a principle she professed to live up to. 

The whistle sounded, and the train slowly 
started. Lucien leant back. 

Theoretically it is not,” he said. 

Susan sat silent in dignity for some 
minutes. Lucien stretched his long form on 
the seat opposite and closed his eyes. 

I don’t know another man who ’d look a 
gentleman in that attitude,” thought Susan, 
feasting on Lucien’s fair manliness. 

When he looked up she was smiling. I 
never knew a man who annoyed me as you 
do. Why do you do it ? ” 

Morton ! Morton Station,” shouted a 
porter as the train drew up. 

Exeter, sir ? ” asked a ticket-collector. 

Exeter ! no,” exclaimed Lucien, jumping 

up. 

‘‘We ’re for Southbourne.” 

“ Cross bridge, middle platform, second 
train, change at Orkley,” said the man. “ All 
for Exeter, Bideford, and ” — apparently the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


135 


rest of England — for as he swam down the 
glittering darkness of the platform he seemed 
to disgorge an endless gazetteer. 

Lucien had their hags out just in time. 

“ They did n’t tell us to change,” said 
Susan, as they crossed the bridge. “ They 
did n’t call out at Orkley, I ’m sure.” 

‘‘ It ’s a happy-go-lucky line,” said Lucien. 

“ Oh, that ’s all very well ; but how should 
I have looked on Exeter platform at midnight 
with you and a dressing-bag ? ” 

Charming.” 

Susan laughed. She had never mastered 
her sense of humour, and she was never 
more charming than when she yielded to it 
more readily than most ladies. 

They had to wait twenty minutes for the 
train back to Orkley, and would have to wait 
forty minutes there. 

‘‘ That ’ll be a nice time to turn up at a 
strange house,” she exclaimed. 

It ’s easily explained.” 

And get the credit of doing it on pur- 
pose ! Oh no, Lucien. I left the key of my 
bag behind ; only found it out as we got to 
the station, &c. We came by this next train. 
See ? ” 


136 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Susan’s voice sounded uncertain, her look 
at Lucien was anxious. 

If you think it best,” he assented, “ I 
ought to have looked out.” 

‘‘ It was n’t your fault. Luce ; it ’s the 
damned railway.” 

She fretted a little, but soon accepted the 
accomplished fact like a man, and she did n’t 
blame Lucien. 

At Orkley a zealous porter advised them 
to take their seats at once. 

It ’s the last local, and fills up long before 
the London train gets here, especially on 
Saturdays,” he said, locking the door without 
protest from Susan. 

Indeed, Susan seemed to have changed all 
at once, or rather to have become herself; 
perhaps with her swift deliberation she had 
determined to take all the situation offered. 
Lucien had never seen her so frank, so 
charming, so unaffected. All else had gone 
from her. At such moments Susan’s nature 
came out, untrammelled, unchecked. It 
ravished like mountain air or early morning. 
Lucien felt her charm. She transported him. 
She talked very quickly in high notes ; her 
eyes shone all pupil, and her face glowed 


HER OWN DEVICES 


137 


pale. She let him kiss her as he had never 
kissed her before, because she returned it. 
The station was silent, the blinds drawn. 
Susan’s transfigured face, white in the dim- 
ness, stirred Lucien to a passionate declara- 
tion — a declaration recorded in the panting 
breath, the rioting heart of the woman whose 
face was against his, whose form was in his 
clasp, whose strange voice had all the phrases 
of love. And so they stayed as if they would 
never part. 

At the sound of feet Susan released her- 
self, quite calmly, as women do, having no 
shame with the beloved. She looked at her- 
self in a hand-glass and smiled happy love at 
Lucien ; she brushed her hair, leaving her 
dressing-bag wide open ; then she sprayed 
herself with peau d’Uspagne, and was going 
to douche Lucien, when she changed her 
mind and drenched the cushion opposite 
instead. 

‘‘Forgot! My scent, you know. More 
Machiavelli, as you call it,” she said, return- 
ing the bottle to her bag, which she shut. 
“ Eeally, there ’s too much of my lady’s 
chamber about this carriage. Don’t smile 
enigmatically, Luce; I hate it. I imagine 


138 


HER OWN DEVICES 


you ’re thinking the wrong things,” she con- 
tinued, in the thick tones that come of hat 
pins in the mouth. '' Is that straight ? ” 

“ You look better without the veil. You ’ll 
be turning it up and cutting your face in 
two.” 

'' How do you know ? Why should I ? 
You ’re the most fastidious man I ever met. 
Tie it, Lucien.” Then she sat down and 
began putting on a pair of arrival gloves. 

‘‘ Tell me about Mrs. Valance, Luce. 
British matron, is n’t she ? Servants, babies, 
and dress, and would like to know really 
whether the stage is as immoral as people 
say — that ’s the style, is n’t it ? ” 

I think it does n’t matter what you talk 
about as long as you do talk. She ’s a nice 
woman.” 

All your women are nice, and all your 
men a good sort. You ’ve a wonderful lot of 
friends,” she replied. And Mrs. Valance — 
good sort, I suppose ? Luce, I do keep my 
word ; I did bring my waltz.” 

“ May I see it ? ” 

“You won’t laugh ? I know you will, or 
you ’ll laugh to yourself. You ’re so critical.” 

“ Am I likely to annoy you on purpose ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


139 


You do it often enough, intentionally or 
not/' 

'' My dear Susan, you 're not thin-skinned. 
Let me look at your composition. I want to 
see Susette expressed in music." 

Susan took a roll of music-paper from her 
bag. She read it over to herself first. 

'' Listen, Lucien, this is how it goes : La, la, 
la, la — la, la, la, la,” she hummed. That 's 
the opening.” She stopped, expecting ap- 
proval. 

“Don't stop. Go right on; then I can 
judge.” 

“ You don't like it ; I can see you don't. I 
sha'n't finish it.” 

Lucien laughed. “I didn't think you 
would he afraid of me,” he said. 

“ I 'm not. Listen ; this is the next thing 
— I don't know the technical name — La, la, 
la, la — la, la, la, lah — la, la, lah,” she 
hummed, marking the time with her hand. 
“ The refrain comes in here,” she said, gliding 
into a new rhythm. 

“ Keep on, Susan ; I want the whole effect,” 
said Lucien, closing his eyes on a vision of 
Susan frowning at the score and gracefully 
heating the wrong time. “ It can’t last much 


140 


HER OWN DEVICES 


longer,” he thought; '‘then what am I to 
say ? This comes of saying she could com- 
pose. Ah, that false relation again ; now the 
street organ lilt. That's it! Now the re- 
miniscences; just what I expected. Oh, 
that 's too had ! Has she ever been taught ? 
What shall I say ? ” 

" I was going to make it longer,” said Susan, 
" but I got tired of it.” 

" Tell me, dear, is that the first thing you 
wrote ? ” 

"Yes. I began a Eeverie afterward. I 
knew exactly the feeling — dreamy, sad with 
a lot of regret — that I wanted to put in, hut 
it all went away when I began to write.” 

"How long is it since you wrote the 
waltz ? ” 

" A long while ago — a year. Oh, more 
than that. I tried to write and got disgusted, 
and put it away, and took it up again ; and 
this is as far as I Ve got.” 

He could not tell her that the fragment 
was a mass of elementary faults, that it 
showed an unmusical temperament, that it 
reflected the banalities of the popular taste. 

" You Ve begun like any one else. We all 
have the same faults. One moment,” he 


HER OWN DEVICES 


141 


said, taking the piece. “ See, here you 
wrote — 



don’t want it corrected like a school- 
girl’s exercise,” she cried, snatching it away. 
‘'It’s just like you to notice the technical 
part. The idea ’s the important thing.” 

“ Oh, you don’t want ideas, Susan.” 

“ Oh, don’t I ! nor do I want a lesson in 
the rudiments of music. I was an idiot to 
show it to you,” she said, putting the music 
back. 

They were disturbed by the arrival of the 
down train. Their door was unlocked, and 
the carriage filled. At Southbourne their 
bags were taken by Shepherd’s man. 

“ I ’ll go over that waltz for you, Susan, 
if you like,” said Lucien. 

“You’re as patient as a saint,” she replied, 
slipping her arm through his. 

“ Saint Antony ? ” 




142 


HER OWN DEVICES 


She looked up colouring, and laughing. 

“ No, not Saint Antony. He resisted 
temptation.” 

“ How do you know I could n’t ? ” 

“Well, I do know. Is that the house. 
Luce ? Eemember our plot ; we are collaho- 
rateurs.” 

“ Accomplices.” 

“ Put it prettily if you can,” she replied. 

It was lovely to see Susan. She told the 
story of her forgetfulness admirably. She 
gushed at first, depicting her fright and des- 
perate resolve to drive both ways. She hon- 
estly regretted the expense, threw in some of 
her reflections en route, and described her 
descent on her unsuspecting family with 
dramatic force and graceful gesture. She 
appealed to every one in turn for approval 
at some point in the story. She exhibited 
in its naked barbarity Lucien’s proposal to 
force the locks open with a chisel, “cold, I 
think. That ’s what he suggested, Eose. 
' I ’ll get one at the station,’ he said. I saw 
both locks of my beautiful bag torn open, 
and the secrets of the toilet exposed on the 
platform.” 

She was telling her story while she leant 


HER OWN DEVICES 


143 


an elbow on the mantelpiece. She had in- 
sensibly taken the centre of the room, and 
spoke better for having the others all watch- 
ing her. 

‘‘We did it quick. Lucien secured the 
driver by appealing to his lowest qualities.’’ 

“Drink,” said Shepherd. 

“Greed,” said Valance. 

“Free admissions,” said Susan. “That 
man drove. When I got back to the station 
no Mr. Bewick, not even a second-hand one. 
An old porter — he looked like what the Zoo 
people call the white-ruffed lemur — casually 
asked me if I was the party going with a 
gentleman to Southbourne. ‘ Come along 
with me ; no luggage, I suppose ! I ’ve got 
you a carriage,’ he said. Then, as we were 
going, he went on, ‘ He did knock you off 
well, miss — knew yer by heart. If there ’s 
been one young lady going with a gentleman 
to Southbourne to-night, there ’s been a score ; 
but you ’re the first that made my heart jump. 
“ That ’s her,” I said, and you was.’ ” 

Lucien laughed at the way she worked up 
old material. 

“Lucien,” she went on, “had reserved a 
whole carriage.” 


144 


HER OWN HE VICES 


Thoughtful of him/’ said Shepherd. 

‘‘ The porter went on — ‘ hTow I ’ll go and 
tell the gentleman ’ [“ he used the word of- 
fensively — made me feel as if I was n’t a 
lady,” interpolated Susan]; ‘he said he’d be 
reading the papers in the hotel smoking- 
room.’ Appearance of Bewick Esquire ! 
‘ Done it under time,’ he said, and that was 
all the praise I got.” 

“We will praise you,” said Shepherd, as 
Susan slid to the ground at Eose’s feet. 

“We’ve had a good time,” exclaimed Va- 
lance. “ Mrs. Bewick has played us the 
whole of your opera. I like it better with- 
out the singers.” 

“ They do intercept the music,” said 
Lucien. 

“We ’re going to start early to-morrow,” 
Shepherd announced. “We drive through 
the woods to Prior’s Mount, picnic and ex- 
ploration, then tea, and home along the 
hills, and may we be blessed with fine 
weather.” 

So they were blessed. After a drive 
through miles of great beeches they struck 
the pine belt, where the wheels ran softly 
on layers of brown needles. A winding 


HER OWN DEVICES 


145 


course up the hill gave glimpses of deep 
combes and the sunlit flanks of curving 
downs, and sudden plunges into darkness 
and dazzling returns to daylight, till they 
stopped at the plateau near the summit. 

“This is luxury,’' said Valance, pointing to 
a table with seats round it. “ How comes it. 
Shepherd? ” 

“The family use it, I think,” said Shep- 
herd. “Was n’t it a hit of luck getting leave 
to come ? They ’re awfully particular.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd,” cried Mrs. 
Valance. 

They were fluent in admiration, all except 
Eose. She was standing apart, at the edge 
where the plateau faces the dying slopes, 
which melt into the throbbing silver haze in 
the far distance. If any one had noticed — 
no one did — he would have seen her first 
eager look soften, fade, and disappear till she 
became motionless as the trees, till she 
seemed to blend with the air, the wind, and 
the sun, as if she had been called by Nature 
to come back to her. 

“Lucien,” she whispered, and turned as if 
he had been by her. 

They were laying the' cloth, or more accu- 
10 


146 


HER OWN DEVICES 


rately, the gatekeeper’s wife, obstructed by 
Susan and directed by Mrs. Valance, was try- 
ing to do so. The men were breaking open 
things, wooden and tin. The wood resounded 
with zealous industry. Eose looked again 
where the glory had been, and then went to 
help the woman. Intuitively she gave Susan 
something that employed the hands and left 
the mind free. 

‘‘ Break up the lettuce, will you, dear ? 
ITl do this,” she said, bringing a welcome 
experience to the woman’s aid. Very soon 
Shepherd and Valance thought they were 
helping Susan to make the salad. Salad- 
making is a fine opening for any competent 
lady. It ’s “ Take those, Mr. Shepherd ; ” 
‘'The whole cruet, Mr. Valance;” “I don’t 
want the outsides;” “Would you draw my 
sleeve a little higher, please ; ” “A cloth for 
my hands, they’re wringing,” and so they 
were; and the rest of the lunch was ready 
and waiting. 

The gatekeeper’s wife, Mrs. Simnet — the 
name must be revealed — hearing a discussion 
as to coffee-making in England and France, 
championed her own country, and modestly 
asserted her skill. 


HER OWN HE VICES 


147 


Give me as much stuff and their contriv- 
ances, and I ’d give you as good a cup of coffee 
as any Frenchman. ” 

Mr. Valance, usually inactive, sprang up 
and found a tin of coffee. Mrs. Simnet saw 
the trap, but stuck to her word, and black 
coffee, though extra, was provided. They 
talked, and smoked, and slept in due 
course. 

Mrs. Bewick, will you sing to us ? ” 
asked Shepherd. " Mrs. Valance has brought 
her guitar. ” 

Eose preferred to accompany herself. 
With the guitar slung across her, she stood 
up and began a cTiansonnette, light as summer 
cloud, bright as summer sky. It was the first 
of many. For long the music vibrated in 
that wood, and for long the sweet human con- 
tralto sent forth the warm notes, colouring 
thoughts and hopes with hues from dream- 
land. 

'' Doesn’t she look beautiful ? ” whispered 
Susan to Shepherd. 

Lucien heard. Eose was standing bare- 
headed a little off the tree, her hair wind- 
teased into spray, her artist hand on the 
strings, and the blue silk band across her 


148 


HER OWN DEVICES 


white dress. She smiled as she saw him 
look at her, hut finished the ballad firmly for 
all that. 

''A musician Mrs. Bewick,” said Valance 
seriously to Lucien. Valance knew, if any 
one did. From him a musician ” meant a 
great deal. He met Eose and took the guitar 
from her, took her hand too, and kissed it 
gravely. 

Susan heard. She declined to sing with- 
out music. Valance told them stories of his 
early days in Paris, where he studied music, 
and knew Gounod and Bizet. 

"Why didn’t you keep it up?” asked 
Susan. 

" I lost my voice, so I made a business of 
my art and became a music publisher,” he 
replied quickly. " Now for the other ruin. 
A Eobertine priory, is n’t it ? ” 

" I doubt it, ” said Lucien. 

They went to the ruin, and after that the 
party separated, and met and lost one an- 
other, and found one another. In the end 
Lucien and Susan came together on the peak 
above the plateau. 

They lay on the grass at the verge. Beyond 
and around them the hills and woods and 


HER OWN DEVICES 


149 


plains glowed in the hot sun, and the sharp 
fragrance of the pines rose in gusts of in- 
cense. 

Where ’s London, Luce ? ” 

" That core of darkness. ” 

What can you see in it. Luce ? ” 

'' My room at the Lenseum. ” 

“ At this distance. Luce ? ” 

“ Near or far, I can see it in your eyes 
now. ” 

Only one ? ” she said, dropping her glance 
steadily into and through his eyes. Dear 
Luce,” she said, smoothing his cheek with 
her cool fingers. 

'' Listen, ” he said. 

Through the pines and the scent of them 
came climbing up two voices and the strum 
of a guitar. 

“ It ’s Eose and — and Valance. He should 
not do that. Listen, Susan — a voice lost to 
Europe. The Eaust duet. That ’s music. 
There ’s an artist. Oh, the fresh old air. ” 
They let it come and surround them, and 
shut them in from all but love and music, 
and sweep them to realms behind the sailing 
white clouds. 

How well she sings, ” gasped Susan, as 


150 


HER OWN DEVICES 


plain silence returned. Lucien did not speak. 
'' How long since we opened ? ” she asked. 
Five weeks. ” 

Five weeks and two days, ” said Susan. 
“ That 's a long while, Luce. Come on, 
they T1 be looking for us. ” 


CHAPTEE VII 


Scarcely three weeks had gone, and every- 
thing was altered. The Captive’s Bride ” 
was withdrawn, the Lensenm to let, Mrs. 
Baumann hack in private life with her hus- 
band, and Susan Stanier understudying at 
another theatre. The weather had changed 
also ; this time to cold rain, so that the fire 
in the drawing-room at Wilmot Gardens be- 
came a bright necessity. The callers had 
gone, leaving tea-cups in strange places, and 
chairs in conversational attitudes. Mrs. 
Valance stayed as usual to talk people over. 

“ Very nice people those Alisons, ” she 
went on. “ You get all the nice people, 
Eose. You don’t dine bores for business. 
The middle daughter reminded me of — 
Another visitor, Eose! At this time. The 
Gilbert Harrisons most likely come to wait 
for their train. ” 

How d’ ye do, Eose ? Oh, you ’re not 
looking fit at all I Nothing wrong, I hope ? 


152 


HER OWN DEVICES 


I beg your pardon, Mrs. Valance; really, I 
didn’t see you. ” 

It was Eyan back from tour, sunburnt, in 
high spirits, and eager for news of Lucien’s 
opera. But as Eose said, he knew everything 
already. 

‘‘ Oh yes ; people in the trade hear trade 
gossip. I want to hear about you and Lucien, 
how you liked the theatre, the excitement the 
first night, and all that sort of thing. Mrs. 
Valance, you know Camonetti,” he said, 
referring to the head of a rival firm ; '' well, 
he declares that the author of the ‘ Captive’s 
Bride ’ will write a great opera one day or 
another. Now, Eose, your impressions! I 
may ? ” he asked, taking out his cigarette case. 
'' Close time for visitors. She spoils me still, 
you see, Mrs. Valance,” he said, as he struck 
a match. 

Eose’s account delighted Eyan. Through- 
out it he was a long smile, broken by laughs. 

" This is much better than a play, ” he 
observed. After Miss Vanlore ? ” 

Miss Stanier came next — Eyan’s intro- 
duction, remember. ” 

I never advised engaging her, ” he pro- 
tested. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


153 


She did n’t hurt the piece, though. It 
is n’t what she does, but what she doesn’t, 
and ought.” 

“ You remind me, Mr. Legard ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Yalance. She was lunching at the 
stores with Lucien yesterday. They didn’t 
see me, and I was in such a hurry, I could n’t 
speak. ” 

He could n’t have seen you, Alice, or he 
would have told me,” said Eose, as coolly 
as if her heart had not leapt in pain. " Miss 
Stanier looked charming,” she continued, 
taking care to avoid Eyan’s glance, though 
she knew he would notice her voice. 

Eyan had noticed, as he always noticed any 
variation in Eose, and as she kept up her 
story, he gave her praise for her brave 
spirit. 

" What ’s Lucien been doing, ” he thought, 
as Eose described her delight at the reception 
of the opera, her dreams of fame and opu- 
lence. 

" For one night only, ” she explained. “ In 
the morning were the papers. ” 

'' Judgment, give judgment! ” cried Eyan. 

'' Well, Eyan, I think that it ’s a mistake 
to have anything to do with the theatre after 


154 


HER OWN DEVICES 


a certain age. You can't get the ojptique des 
coulisses unless you begin young. ” 

'' My case exactly, ” exclaimed Eyan. 

When I first went into the profession, I felt 
as if I had suddenly been thrown into a 
dreamland where the Abstract Emotions had 
human forms. Fear, Pity, Anger, Love, 
Envy, and the other old friends with capi- 
tals, had come to life. It didn't seem decent 
to associate with emotion so much exposed. 
It was rather a spectral world; but all the 
same, it 's a fine field for one commencing 
psychologist. " 

Eose laughs, and you laugh, Mr. Legard, 
and I don't understand a bit why. What was 
that all about ? Your words mean something 
when they 're alone, but when they come 
together they 're not intelligible. I am sorry 
to see you believe in psychology. I must 
go now, Eose. Kindest regards to Mr. 
Bewick. I hope he 'll get his spirits back 
soon. He 's quite depressed. It 's the reaction, 
I suppose. Good-bye, Mr. Legard. Come 
and see me soon, and bring your friend. " 

'' What friend, Mrs. Valance ? " 

‘‘The interpreter,” said the lady, trium- 
phant. 


HER OWN HE VICES 


155 


“ Mrs. Valance still sees truth whole, and 
administers it neat, ” he observed. 

" There ’s no malice in it. ” 

Then it ’s inexcusable, ” replied Eyan. 
“I’m sorry Lucien ’s out of sorts. ” 

“ Oh, it ’s nothing serious. Do you think 
she noticed he had n’t told me about the stores 
and Miss Stanier ? ” said Eose. 

“No! Mrs. Valance always tells you 
what she notices ; then you know she ’s obser- 
vant. Stupid of Luce. ” 

“ Stupid of me, ” replied Eose. 

With these two there was so rare a sympa- 
thy, so reticent a delicacy, that they spoke 
lightly when they were most in earnest, and 
used a screen of stoicism to intercept any 
intuition too direct. 

“ I ’m in town for good now, ” he said. 
“ At my old rooms. I think I ’ll take it 
back. ” 

Eose unlocked her desk, and gave him a 
pocket sketch-book of the kind artists use 
for notes. This had a steel lock to it. 

“ Mrs. Pearce was here the other day, ” said 
Eose, as she wrapt the book in a piece of 
fresh paper. 

“ Still at the same place ? 


156 


HER OWN HE VICES 


Yes. Just the same as she was. Only 
herself and the master. No mistress, no 
fellow-servant. ” 

Unsociable, hut devoted, ” said Eyan. 

Each knew that the other was thinking of 
that day more than two years ago, when a 
woman of strange pallor, and with piercing 
dark eyes, had roused Eose in early morning, 
when they were living in the country. 

Eose had told Eyan how thoroughly she 
believed this stranger, who said she was 
Willie Eaynor’s servant, that she had come 
for the dangerous remedy for his attacks — so 
dangerous was it, that he would not keep it 
himself, but always left some in Eose’s care. 
Even then, when they had not seen him for 
so long, he asked her to keep it. Eose had 
given it to her. 

The same evening, after some difficulty, the 
doctor had certified that Willie Eaynor had 
died from an overdose of that medicine. The 
doctor had, in compliance with the urgent 
and very prompt appeal of the family, waived 
his preference for a post-mortem. There the 
matter ended. The family had returned to 
the shades they had sprung from so oppor- 
tunely; the doctor had given himself the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


157 


benefit of the doubt that always exists; and 
the others, the friends, had held their peace. 

'' She had seen Lucien in the street, and 
wanted to know who Susan was. There was 
no mistaking her description,” said Eose. 

Lucien had n’t seen her. He had said noth- 
ing about her. ” 

Mary Pearce turned curious ? ” he replied, 
quite understanding that Lucien had said 
nothing about Miss Stanier either. 

She was quite interested, ” said Eose, 
giving him the key of the note-book. 

" A strange woman, ” said Eyan, after a 
pause. " Fleur de Luce, I must go now. 
May I come soon and talk to you about some- 
thing pleasant ? ” 

Of Alice ? Then it ’s good news. ” 
Possible good news. Conspiracy 1 ” 

‘‘ Abduction ! ” 

'' The criminal code ! I T1 take my chance 
one afternoon. We ’re rehearsing at the 
Mayfair. ” 

" That ’s where Susan’s engaged. ” 

'' Somewhat too much of Susan, ” he re- 
plied. Good-bye, Eose ; and remember, I 
expect to find you in better health next time. ” 
Eyan came away angry with Lucien, and 


158 


HER OWN DEVICES 


prejudiced against Susan. Eyan was prob- 
ably as humane a man as could be wished for, 
but his deeper sympathies were restricted to 
his own class, and to just a few others who 
ought to have been in that class, who were of 
it by nature if not by income. 

Eose was the chief of these. Eyan ad- 
mitted to himself that she was of right in his 
class. Had they been strangers or enemies, 
he would always have treated her as of the 
same caste as himself. With Eaynor and 
Lucien there was the link of personal liking 
only, a link tough enough to bear any strain, 
but not the same thing as the instinctive 
acknowledgment that Eose and he were on 
one level. They looked at things in the 
same way, they had the same ideals. Add 
to this that they were friends, and that Eyan 
would do much for his friends. 

Eose was suffering, and she ought not to 
suffer. He had noticed her voice when Mrs. 
Valance had told her of seeing Lucien at the 
stores. It was not the right voice for Eose. 
Lucien was concealing things from her. That 
was unlike him, and hateful to Eose. Eyan 
was not altogether surprised at Lucien. It 
had always been on the cards that some 


HER OWN DEVICES 


159 


woman would enlarge his knowledge of her 
sex. He would have been very lucky if some 
woman had not avenged his unconscious 
indifference to appreciation. Eyan smiled, 
remembering Lucien’s women friends. Lucien 
thought they were fond of music. He forgot 
ladies were women. How he must have en- 
raged them! Eyan had glimpses of appre- 
ciative women of many styles. None of the 
style to attract fastidious Lucien. His fas- 
tidiousness had vStood him in good stead. 
For music, beauty, and disposition he had 
the keen fastidiousness which demands per- 
fection. He was as sensitive to the disson- 
ances of beauty and character as to those of 
tone. But once fixed, his imagination threw 
splendours on the object. Eyan had known 
him do it about voices, and music, and his 
own profession. He did not care to think of 
that glowing faculty at work on a woman. 
Eyan hated to interfere in such matters, yet 
he knew that he would act for Eose if there 
were need. 

'' Another of them, ” he thought, as he took 
out the meagre record of Willie Eaynor's 
life. 

That a woman had to answer for his ruin, 


160 


HER OWN DEVrCES 


Eyan never had any doubt. F or some woman 
Eaynor had broken with the girl he was 
plighted to; for some woman he had sacri- 
ficed his friendship with Lucien, who had 
resented his disloyalty — resented it with a 
scorn peculiar to the man who is sensitive 
and inexperienced. They make no allow- 
ances. Eyan’s training had been different. 
It had made him lenient — weakly indulgent 
Eose would call him when his condemnation 
lagged behind her indignation. This temper 
had its bounds. Eyan could give a verdict 
— more, he could carry it out. 

He turned over the hook, looked at the 
writing, running through rough drawings of 
heads, scenes, figures, bits of character, stud- 
ies in pose and attitude. He had rarely seen 
Willie during that time. Touring kept him 
away a good deal; and Willie’s constraint 
when they did meet, checked all confidences. 
Eyan had read these notes, as Mrs. Pearce 
told him '' the master ” wanted him to read 
them. He had not studied them, nor tried 
to find out his friend’s secret. It was a 
secret well kept. Not a name of place or 
person, not a date nor an indication of sea- 
son, to guide the inquisitive, except towards 


HER OWN DEVICES 


161 


the end, where the self-control, or the atten- 
tion, had slackened. 

One thing could not be missed — the sym- 
bol of Venus, used for the woman’s name, as 
if she represented Love itself. 

Out of the unconnected sentences, convinc- 
ingly sincere, rose a woman, elusive, various, 
provoking. Whether young or old, maid or 
married, dark or fair, was not told. It was 
the nature, the spirit, that the student of 
form had preserved. Eyan shut the book in 
repulsion. 

He had not to search for Lucien. As he 
expected, Lucien was at the Mayfair a day or 
two afterwards. He and Susan came to the 
stage-door as Eyan was leaving. 

“ Mr. Legard, my friend Mr. Bewick,” said 
Susan. 

" Well, Eyan. ” 

" Well, Luce. ” 

Oh, if you ’re going to slobber over one 
another like that, I ’ll go, ” cried Susan, 
making for the letter-rack. 

" Sorry I missed you the other day, ” said 
Lucien. 

'' Bound to meet now you ’re one of us, ” 
replied the other. '' Eose all right again ? ” 

11 


162 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“ Eose ! She ’s not been ill ! ” 

'' Was n’t looking quite the thing, I 
thought. Glad you did so well, Lucien, 
with your piece. The management drop 
much ? ” 

Nothing to hurt. I sha’n’t do any more 
theatrical work. ” 

“ Cold fit, eh ? You will, you know, and 
you ’ll do better. ” 

‘‘ Where are you men going to lunch ? ” 
said Susan. 

With you, if we’re asked. ” 

‘‘ Eight. You shall be my hosts, ” said 
Susan. Let ’s go to Giuseppe Joe’s; he ’s 
got the place himself now. ” 

At the top of the street they met Horace 
Shepherd, and included him among the 
hosts. 

It was just the thing Susan liked, this 
lunch with three men, no other woman, and 
a restaurant where she felt at home, and 
feared no crushing toilettes. Giuseppe Joe 
received her with profound respect, bowed to 
each of the gentlemen, gave them the best 
table, and put a special waiter at their dis- 
posal. He took Susan’s jacket, gloves, veil, 
and parasol, as if each article endowed him 


HER OWN DEVICES 


163 


with a separate order of chivalry. He pre- 
sented the menu as if it were a nation’s thanks 
for a province added to the empire. He 
regretted Susan’s absence, had seen her like- 
ness in Footlight Flashes^ and called Lucien, 
Maestro. 

I can get you tickets for the Private 
View, Miss Stanier, ” said Shepherd, "if 
you are not likely to be acting on Saturday. ” 
“ Thanks, so much. There ’s no fear of 
that. The parts are too good. Oh, it ’s hard 
to be an understudy ; your ladies live by rule, 
and your manager says you ’ve more leisure 
for the pleasures of polyandry. ” 

" You resented that ? ” asked Eyan. 

" Ho, I didn’t know what he meant,” re- 
plied Susan. " Hever resent unless you 
know. I once gave myself away awfully by 
resenting something quite innocent. So I 
said nothing, and laughed meaninglessly. 
What was Sumner driving at ? ” 

" He was making a hash of Bathurst’s epi- 
gram, ‘ When Polyandry got into society she 
took the name of Flirtation,’” said Eyan. 

" I ’m no nearer, ” said Susan. " This must 
be faced! Horace, what does polyandry 
mean ? ” 


164 


HER OWN DEVICES 


“ Well, you know, when there are more 
men than women. "No, that ’s not it. When 
the increase of population exceeds — ” 

'' That way lies Malthus, ” said Lucien. 

" Well, Luce, you tell me, ” said Susan. 

'' Bewick on the Matriarchate ! ” murmured 
Eyan. 

'' You know what polygamy is, ” said 
Lucien. 

" I Ve heard, and I don’t approve of it,” 
said Susan. 

" Oh, Miss Stanier, you ought not to give 
your opinion; you must only answer the 
question, ” said Shepherd professionally. 

I ’m not under cross-examination, Mr. 
Shepherd, ” said Susan ; '' so I say polygamy 
ought not to he allowed. What would you 
men say if it was the other way round ? ” 

'' Polyandry, ” said Eyan. 

“Let us change the subject gracefully,” 
said Shepherd. 

“ Transitions show the artist, ” said Lucien. 

“ Let us talk of dress, ” said Eyan. “ That ’s 
a half-way house. ” 

“ Miss Stanforth ’s scarlet in the ball-room 
scene,” said Shepherd. 

“ Half-way — barely, ” said Susan. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


165 


" We need n’t go any farther into that sub- 
ject, ” said Eyan. " Quick-change artists in 
demand this morning. Have some whiskey, 
Miss Stanier; it’ll help you to bear the 
strain. ” 

I ’ve given up whiskey a long while, ” 
said Susan. 

“ The best plan if you can do it, ” said 
Eyan. 

“ Not because I took such a lot, ” cried 
Susan. Quite another reason. ” 

" Peut-on ? ” asked Lucien. 

On ne peut pas, ” said Eyan, after looking 
at Susan. " Elle s’attendrit — affaire de 
ccEur dans le lointain. Parlons d ’autre 
chose. ” 

“ Ordre du jour. Voulez-vous que je parle 
de Mile. Yvette, par exemple. ” 

N’importe, regardez-donc. Le nuage 
s’envole, le front est serein, le regard est 
hardi. Suzette revient h ses derniferes 
amours ! ” 

“Do you always speak French when you 
don’t want to be understood, Mr. Legard ? ” 
said Susan. 

“Why else?” 

Lucien and Shepherd had to get back to 


166 


HER OWN DEVICES 


work, so the lunch party broke up, ushered 
out by Giuseppe Joe deprecating their praise. 

‘'We’ll drop Lucien at the office,” said 
Susan. “ You ’ll be going my way, Mr. Le- 
gard ? We can go together if you ’ll carry my 
parcels. ” 

“ Delighted to walk with you. I ’ll engage 
a commissionaire for the parcels. I never 
carry parcels. ” 

“ Well, Luce will carry them to the office, ” 
said Susan ; “ so never mind about the com- 
missionaire. ” 

They walked along the Embankment, Susan 
and Eyan talking all the time, Lucien silent 
and absorbed. At the office she went to his 
room for some music he had promised her. 

“ When shall I see you again ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, soon ; some day or other. ” 

“ Will you come to tea after the matinee ? ” 

“I’m going to the Private View. ” 

“ Would you like to go to that concert on 
Friday ? ” 

“ No ; I’m going to a theatre with Dugald 
Miller. You know he comes up on Friday. ” 

“ As you like. ” 

“ As I like, of course, ” she replied. 
“ Have n’t I told you I can’t be going all over 


f 


HER OWN DEVICES 


167 


London with you now ? The slack season ’s 
over. People are coming hack. You make 
me wild with you, Lucien. Good-bye. 
Buck up, Luce,” she said, with her ready 
smile, as she ran off to Kyan. 

“ Got your cigars ? ” she asked, as they set 
off. Well, Mr. Legard, what luck in 
America ? Did they like you ? ” 

" Oh yes. They made some fuss about me. 
I had a good time there. You know there 
are a lot of English actors there. Mackin- 
non and Hackett. I saw your friend Butler 
Carstairs. ” 

“ Butler Carstairs ? He 's in Australia. ” 

“ He was at Trisco when I was there. He 
asked after you. ” 

Carstairs asked after me ? ” said Susan 
slowly. “Why should he? I was only in 
the theatre with him a few weeks. ” 

“ He inquired about nearly every one. 
Sign of home-sickness, I think. ” 

“ Do you know Dugald Miller ? ” she asked 
abruptly. “ A great friend of mine. Very 
clever — scientific, you know. Quite young ; 
just as dark as you ’re fair. I should like you 
to know him. I ’m going to take him to Mrs. 
Bewick’s on Friday. Will you be there ? ” 


168 


HER OWN DEVICES 


‘‘It isn’t her day, you know; but I dare 
say she ’ll let me come.” 

“ Oh, that ’ll he all right. I ’ll arrange 
with Eose. She won’t mind,” said Susan, 
not seeing Eyan’s look of grave astonish- 
ment. Susan answering for Eose in this con- 
fident fashion grated on Eyan. 

Susan continued her talk on men and 
manners till they reached the Circus, where 
he saw her into an omnibus. They parted, 
to think of one another. 

For already Susan’s Hydra had developed 
another head called Eyan. The Lucien head, 
lately strong and dominant, was weakening ; 
the Dugald Miller was in high favour, though 
he wanted encouragement. The Lucien was 
very troublesome. With him there had hap- 
pened what had before happened with Susan, 
in spite of her caution. She had arranged to 
stop at a certain point, and then her feelings 
had run away with her just a little before 
she went to Southbourne. They had culmi- 
nated in the railway carriage and in the pine 
wood. For perhaps three weeks she had 
been hotly in love with Lucien. She had 
let him see it. She had been very sweet to 
him. Susan really in love was glorious. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


169 


Her nature, freed from checks and artifice, 
declared itself in frank abandonment. At 
those moments she was capable of sacrifice, 
of devotion. But they were only moments. 
They were dogged by caution and calculation, 
saving qualities in conduct, paralysing in art. 
Her temperament was towards license, her 
reason counselled restraint. Because she 
never yielded completely, she thought she 
controlled herself. Eeally few women could 
resist less. The attraction of conquest, of 
admiration, was irresistible. Susan was at 
the mercy of her emotions. A caprice was 
gratified till it was stale, an infatuation in- 
dulged till it became dangerous. So she 
prided herself on chastity. 

Now, to use her own language, she was 
shedding Lucien. It was difficult. A man 
led as far as he had been believes his senses. 
Protests and explosions of anger are misin- 
terpreted and opposed by a patience which 
would be sublime if it were not so easily 
made ridiculous. The process of shedding 
the lover kills the love. A persistent and 
unreasonable man is easily hated. He be- 
comes a nuisance, even a danger, and dangers 
have to be removed. Susan had the whip- 


170 


HER OWN DEVICES 


hand, and knew it. She was not married. 
The pedestal of virtue suited her figure. 

Susan knew that Eose was now her best 
card. As things became more and more 
hopeless, Lucien would shrink from giving 
her pain. If there had been a time when he 
would have ventured everything for Susan’s 
sake, when she had fallen back from coward- 
ice, when she had looked at the future and 
found her love had not courage, that time 
had passed. Lucien had been sincere at all 
events with Susan. As regards Eose, there 
was a terrible account against him. Luck 
and her own loyal nature had hitherto saved 
her much. If, argued Susan, Lucien sees it ’s 
all up with me, he 11 do all he can to prevent 
Eose knowing. 

The strain of such thoughts she eased by 
entertaining the Hydras, Dugald and Eyan, 
with fair speech. 

Meantime Eyan had summed her up. 

A wrong ’un, that lady,” he said. Of 
the worst sort, too. Her ‘ dare not ’ waits a 
long way off her would. She’s tiring of 
Luce. She’s got him tied up pretty tight. 
Looks as if Eose need n’t worry. Still I ’ll 
learn a little more of you. Miss Stanier. By 


HER OWN DEVICES 


171 


your kind permission I will call on my friend 
Mrs. Bewick. Lucien can hoe his own row. 
Idl appear for Eose.” 

On the Friday he went to Wilmot Gar- 
dens, and explained to Eose the notable 
scheme he had worked out for reconciling 
his own views with Sir Thomas Hoyle’s. 

''Fletcher and I take a theatre. If at the 
end of three years it ’s not a success I retire, 
and Alice and I live the rest of our days 
with her father. We shall be married after 
the first Drawing-room. Alice is going to 
be presented before her marriage. I shall 
be a full-blown manager in six months ! 
Bow down to me, Eose.” 

" What an arrangement ! ” said Eose scorn- 
fully. "It’s all in your favour. Hever 
mind, you’re sure to fail, and you’ll have 
to live a healthy country Efe ever after- 
wards.” 

" Hote that I marry Alice and stay in the 
profession. Got my way there at all events,” 
he replied, laughing. "As for failing. In 
the bright dictionary — What did you say? 
Connu ! Oh, Fleur de Luce ! Sympathy, 
Eose, sympathy ! Eejoice with those about 
to be managers.” 


172 


HER OWN DEVICES 


‘‘I’ll rejoice with Alice, then. 0 Eyan, 
you are stubborn ! You don’t deserve to 
have your way.” 

Eyan sat there rubbing his big hands, and 
winking, and blinking, and getting very pink, 
till Eose fairly burst out laughing at the 
spectacle of success. Then she came round, 
and listened to his plans about the theatre, 
and especially about the house, and the 
Court-dress for Alice. 

“ She ’ll come up soon after Christmas. I 
told her one of my friends would show her 
round,” he said. 

“ One of your friends ? ” said Eose. “ Alice 
has a friend of her own to do that. I shall 
look after her. I must write to her about 
the house. Have you any idea — ? ” 

“ Sometimes flats attract, at others one 
does justice to Grosvenor Square.” 

“ Perhaps with your influence you could 
get Buckingham Palace.” 

“ Miss Stanier — Mr. Miller,” announced 
Sharpe, and Susan treated Eyan to an edi- 
fying exhibition of affection. Mr. Dugald 
Miller, a well-mannered youth, renewed his 
acquaintance with Eose by giving her some 
lovely flowers. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


173 


“Now I wonder whether the suburban 
serpent put you up to that, my lad,” thought 
Eyan. He watched Miller, noticed the way 
he turned to Susan for confirmation and 
support with a charming air of comradeship. 

“Early stage. He likes her very much. 
Hasn’t thought of anything beyond being 
friends ; she ’s not tuned him yet. Wise 
virgin ! Wants his constitution to settle 
first,” thought Eyan. And all the time 
Susan was lavishing the treasures of her 
intellect on him. They had been to the 
National Gallery, and the talk turned on 
pictures. 

“ Technique is nothing, personality is 
everything,” said Susan. 

“Where have I heard that?” said Eyan 
quickly. 

“ Oh, it ’s not original,” she replied. “ I 
read it somewhere, years ago.” 

Eyan nodded, while Susan reeled off the 
stock criticisms on the great masters. He 
recalled the days in Eaynor’s studio in Bays- 
water, when Willie declaimed against the 
technique doctrine. In a flash he saw the 
house, a big studio with a portico stuck on 
it, the little room where Eyan slept, and the 


174 


HER OWN DEVICES 


spacious studio itself, and Eaynor sitting in 
the wing chair in the dusk arguing with dim 
figures who would not be convinced. For 
these were the days when technique was 
lord of all. Susan had settled Velasquez’s 
business as Eyan looked up and saw Lucien 
coming in. 

With experts talk of their subjects, before 
them talk of any other, was Susan’s rule ; so 
when Lucien came she dropped out, and lured 
young Dugald to talk of science. But he 
would n’t bore people with agricultural chem- 
istry, though he made it interesting when 
Eose talked to him under cover of a hot dis- 
cussion on the progress of women. 

Eeally, Mrs. Bewick, you ’re only listen- 
ing because you know I ’m mad on chemistry. 
It can’t interest you, really,” he said. “I 
was going to say — oh, about America. I 
want to go there. They ’re a long way ahead 
of us. You know their government does a 
lot for science. When I can afford it I ’m 
going to Professor Alexander Mitchell’s place. 
Oh, it ’s lovely — finest thing in the world. 
I could go in for forestry too, could n’t I ? 
Properly, I ought to go now — three years is 
the course.” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


175 


Perhaps you will,” said Eose, smiling. 

‘'Don’t think so. There ’re too many of 
us, Mrs. Bewick. It costs a lot at Professor 
Mitchell’s,” said Miller with resignation. “ If 
I did, you might come over for your holiday. 
I ’d show you everything. It ’s really very 
interesting. Miss Stanier ’s going, now. May 
I call if I’m in London? I go to work 
to-morrow.” 

“I hoped you would come before this,” 
said Eose, as they followed Eyan down the 
passage. 

“ See you soon, Lucien,” said Susan, as 
she shook hands with him. “ By-the-bye, 
don’t come to the stage-door so often. You 
understand. Take care of yourself. A 
ri'cederci!' 

After this plain warning Susan felt justi- 
fiably angry when, a few days later, she met 
Lucien turning on to the Embankment from 
the Savoy. But for a slight fog she would 
have seen him in time to avoid him, and 
keep her appointment with Shepherd at the 
stage-door of the Mayfair. 

“ Susan ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I was just — ” 

“Just going to the stage-door, though I 
told you not to,” she returned sharply. “ You 
never think of me.” 


176 


HER OWN DEVICES 


That’s the very thing T was doing.” 

‘'You needn’t, then; I don’t want you to. 
Besides, I don’t believe you were. Did n’t I 
tell you not to give me away at the theatre ? ” 

“ I was n’t going there ; I was going to the 
City,” said Lucien. “ Anything wrong, Susan ? 
You don’t look very well this morning.” 

“ Then don’t examine me so closely. Any- 
thing wrong, indeed ? You ought to know ; 
if you don’t, I do. This kind of thing must 
come to a stop; I’m tired of it.” 

“ Tired of me, you mean,” said Lucien, 
quietly. 

“Don’t shout. Keep your hair on. Of 
course I ’m tired of you. You ’re enough to 
tire any woman. You better go back to 
your wife. I don’t want another woman’s 
leavings.” 

She laughed defiantly, stagily, enjoying his 
surprise. There ’s nothing like giving it ’em 
straight, she thought. 

Lucien had seen her in tempers before this, 
had laughed at the coarse vigour of her 
speech, but he had never seen her look so 
strange, had never heard that tone before. 

The subliminal Susan revealed a slum- 


woman. 


HER OlVN DEVICES 177 

He said nothing. At the next turning she 
stopped. 

“This is my way” she said. “Good-bye, 
and ” 

“ Good-bye,” said Lucien, scarcely stopping. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Fleetwood Lloyd ’s come back,” chanted 
Rose to Ryan a few days later. Fleetwood 
Lloyd 's been mixing the styles. How they 
have had to send for Lucien. Fleetwood 
Lloyd’s going back to his clubs, and his 
dinner, and his getting of business. M. de 
Froncemagne demands the artist who de- 
signed the plans. Would that I had seen 
the fiery Count and the diplomatic Lloyd 
going over those plans ! ” 

“ Rose ! Rose ! ! Mrs. Bewick ! ! ! ” cried Ryan. 

I am shocked ! That you should sound 
the loud timbrel o’er Fleetwood’s downfall. 
The good man struggling with adversity.” 

“ The bad man struggling with hypoc- 
risy,” interrupted Rose, flushed and sparkling. 
“ Ryan, don’t pretend to be a humbug. You ’re 
not actor enough for that. You’re just as 
glad as I am really.” 

What price coals of fire ? ” asked the 
moralist. I am delighted for Lucien’s sake. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


179 


It ’ll do him good to get away. When does 
he go?” 

'' The day after to-morrow. Charing Cross 
at eight. Come and see him off, Eyan.” 

'' My dear Eose, at eight precisely I drop a 
piece of buttered toast on my wife’s wedding 
bonnet, and the public roar. Otherwise — 
well, you know.” 

Eose saw her husband off alone. As she 
drove home she felt for the first time in her 
life glad that he had gone away. If her mis- 
givings had any foundation — she did not 
admit that they had — this was the best 
thing that could happen. Then she hated 
herself for thinking of Lucien in this way. 
Hadn’t he been friends with many ladies 
without her thinking twice about it ? Yes, she 
answered herself at once, but they were not 
Susan Staniers. Since Mrs. Valance’s warning 
Eose had been on her guard with Susan, on her 
guard, too, against being unjust to Susan. Per- 
haps Eose was too ready to see only the good 
qualities of her friends, too warmhearted to 
cavil at blemishes, perhaps too little experi- 
enced in such matters not to be deceived some- 
times. She imagined no evil and saw none. If 
it was made visible to her, she was apt to 


180 


HER OWN DEVICES 


recoil and not to return. She recoiled from 
Susan now. Casual references from Shep- 
perd and from Eyan showed her that con- 
cealment was habitual with Susan. Why 
not say she had been there with Shepherd, or 
met Eyan here ? Why this habitual reti- 
cence ? Why, also, this parade of sincerity ? 
Because it was the best pose for an intrig- 
uante ? Eose had insight; she could unravel a 
skein of character if she liked. The idea of 
dissecting her friends appeared a profanation 
to her. Already she had noticed Susan 
too much. She had discovered insincerity. 
Lucien gone, she could give up an exercise 
she felt to be degrading. 

She need not have troubled, though she 
could not know that Eyan had taken up the 
study of Susan. 

Ever since he guessed Eose’s fears that day 
it had stuck in his memory. Eose and 
Willie Eaynor, Susan and Lucien and him- 
self — he kept thinking of that combination. 
To know Susan more, and to know more of 
Susan, struck him as the obvious course. He 
did not care for this kind of sport, he did 
care for Eose. He was a sportsman, too. 
Who says sportsman ” says tracker — in 


HER OWN DEVICES 


181 


modern language, '' detective.” Going home 
from his club in the hours when the silent 
London vastness favours the brooding mood, 
he thought it over night after night to no 
purpose. His mind was nosing the ground 
in every direction, like a hound at fault 
whimpering over a tangled scent. 

He did not know Susan intimately, not 
well even. They had not been in the same 
company. He had not met her half-a-dozen 
times when, in the chance encounter of a 
matinee, she asked him to introduce her to 
Eose. He remembered that she asked, and 
that she asked to be introduced to Mrs. 
Bewick. That was etiquette, of course. It 
was a little odd that she knew Eose by name. 

Though he detested Franco-Italian cook- 
ing, Eyan lunched at Giuseppe Joe’s for five 
days in succession. The sixth day Susan 
came in. Now that Eyan was acting at 
another theatre, he thought it best not to go 
to the Mayfair. It would look dehberate; 
he preferred chance. The chance meeting 
led to others. Very soon they were old 
friends. Susan appreciated Eyan. Socially, 
he was better than Lucien. A county family 
impressed her. She tried to catch the coun- 


182 


HER OWN DEVICES 


try family tone from Eyan. She read novels 
about county society, which appeared to con- 
sist in sport, and meals, and baths. Hunt 
breakfasts, shoot luncheons, and men who 
could n’t be kept out of baths. The eldest 
son always quarrelled with the squire about 
cutting off the entail. Eyan said of course 
they did ; a man had to look after his father. 
In the end, Susan found that not a M. F. H., 
not a J. P., best expressed the county gentle- 
man. That was reserved for the man with 
the spud. Eound him county society re- 
volved. To put a middle-aged man in a field 
with a spud was the great achievement of 
the land laws. Indeed, it was doubtful 
whether the man were wanted, the spud was 
so much more important. At least Susan’s 
novelists implied as much, and Eyan sup- 
ported them. 

Susan talked freely, but not so freely as 
with Lucien. She recognised a difference in 
Eyan. He was cool and practical ; besides, 
there was time. Meanwhile she talked a bit 
too much, and let him see through her praise 
of Eose a background of envy. She talked a 
little too much, and a little too indifferently, 
of young Miller. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


183 


A letter from Lucien altered everything. 
It contained a letter directed to Eose, which 
Lucien asked Eyan to give to her as soon as 
he found a convenient occasion. He said 
also that the letter told Eose about his pas- 
sion for Susan. ‘‘ I have told her everything 
without reserve about myself ; about Susan 
I have said as little as I could. It is a state- 
ment of facts, a hare record. I have not 
excused myself. I have not pleaded for for- 
giveness. All I have tried to do is to let 
her know what occurred. I cannot return to 
her until she knows. Eose must decide. 
Do this for me, Eyan. Eose is very fond of 
you. You can do it better than any one 
else. Write soon.’' 

Eyan did n’t pity him a bit. He saw that 
he had suffered, and said he deserved to. 
He did not doubt his sincerity at all, but he 
did not feel inclined to sympathise with him. 
He quite understood that Lucien had come to 
his senses, that a reaction of remorse had set 
in. That was Lucien all over. He had out- 
raged his own sensitiveness, and now he 
loathed himself. The thing was bad enough 
to be sure, but Lucien’s delicate conscience 
would make it infinitely worse; and if it 


184 


HER OWN DEVICES 


ended with him, thought Eyan, it would n’t 
matter if it did. Eyan did n’t like the duty 
thrust upon him. This belated consideration 
for Eose rather disgusted him. Of course 
Lucien, in the jargon of the scrupulous, felt 
the need for confession. No man had less 
sympathy with that sort of thing than Eyan. 
Still, when he cooled, he saw that he was n’t 
quite the temperament to measure Lucien. 
He had a glimmering, too, of John Bull’s in- 
adequacy as a spiritual instrument. Some- 
thing — God knows where from — had been 
given to Eyan that Legards had for generations 
lived and died without. It enabled him to 
see, if not to understand, a humanity of finer 
fibre. It was no use saying it was all non- 
sense ; it was there. 

The natural man Eyan would have taken 
Susan in his stride. He knew her register ! 
And Lucien must need take her seriously ! 
He was n’t revolted by the suburbanity which, 
after a lunch with Susan, made Eyan feel as if 
he had been a long time at Whiteleys. What 
was her attraction then ? She knew how to 
use her sex, that was Susan’s secret. It ’s a 
weapon few women use, or need to use ; fewer 
use it deliberately. 


HER OWN EE VICES 


185 


But in timeEyan had got over his anger with 
Lucien. He decided to write, saying he would 
think over the matter and let him know. 

There was Kose to think of. He did n’t 
like the idea of giving her Lucien’s letter, nor 
of her knowing more than she knew now. 
Some things are best not known. You never 
knew how women would take these things. 
Besides he, Eyan Locke, had determined that 
Eose should not suffer. 

That night coming home from the club with 
Fellowes, who was very keen about the theatre 
project, his mind cleared the tangle in the 
scent, and took the strangest line. When he 
got in, Eyan read Willie’s book again. 

It was a thousand, a million to one against 
it. Even if it were so, by itself it was only a 
remarkable coincidence. The combination 
made it valuable, and that again was another 
remote chance. He had to see Susan at once. 
The next day they met at Giuseppe Joe’s. In 
the light of his own idea, Susan became 
peculiarly interesting. If he were right, she 
must know a great deal she was not supposed 
to know. She must have acted on a set 
scheme. He and Lucien and Eose must have 
amused her extremely. 


186 


HER OWN DEVICES 


He lighted a cigarette, sipped his coffee, and 
said — 

“Have you many of Lucien's letters?” 

Susan flushed brilliantly, uncontrollably, 
and met Eyan’s look with flaming eyes. 

‘‘ What 's that to you ? ” she replied 
hotly. 

1 11 tell you,” said Eyan, noticing the 
revelation of a new Susan. That hardened 
mouth and straightened face and insolent 
stare revealed the recesses of a temperament. 
In the blaze of her anger she had exposed 
herself. 

'' 1 11 tell you,” he repeated quietly. 

“ I don't want to know ; I sha'n't listen,” 
said Susan. 

“ I want you to give me those letters,” 
Eyan went on. 

Not for any money.” 

I had n’t thought of offering you money,” 
he continued. I ’ve had a letter from 
Lucien. He asks me to give Mrs. Bewick 
a letter in which his relations with you are 
acknowledged.” 

“ Lucien ’s a coward.” 

‘‘ ‘ Conscience doth make cowards of us 
all,’ ” said Eyan. “ This is a case of con- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


187 


science. Perhaps coward is n't the right 
word. There's a sort of courage in con- 
fession." 

How about me ? I'm not thought of.” 

Is n't that an ordinary risk in these 
cases ? " 

“ Well, I don't know about that. Any- 
how, if that letter goes, I 'll send all his." 

“ ISTaturally ; hut is n't that a hit late ? " 
urged Kyan. ‘'Shouldn't they have been 
sent first, long ago. A certain kind of letter 
does n't keep well. They 're always useful, 
of course, hut their value weakens with time. 
There 's only one letter it ever looks well to 
use like that — that is the first.” 

"It's shameful of Lucien," exclaimed 
Susan. "He goes off to France without a 
word to me ; he does n't write me a line, and 
this is the first I hear of him. It 's revenge 
— that 's what it is." 

" I don't think so,” said Eyan firmly. " It 's 
remorse, shame, expiation. He thinks he 's 
the vilest of men, that confession is his only 
course. That idea's got hold of him." 

" He takes fire all at once, and all over." 

"When a match is applied to a train of 
powder the same thing occurs." 


188 


HER OWN EE VICES 


He 's not so inflammable as that, you 
know.” 

We flash at different temperatures.” 

‘‘ You make excuses for him,” said Susan. 
She was enjoying this interview. It was 
real. Her lover’s friend trying to get com- 
promising letters from her ! 

Look here, Susan,” said Eyan. '' Lucien ’s 
made a fool of himself ? Granted ! Why 
should n’t the matter end there ? I ’ll under- 
take to get him not to send that letter if 
you ’ll give up his letters.” 

A clever idea ! Mr. Legard, do you think 
I don’t see through it all ? It ’s a dodge to 
get those letters ffom me. How do I know 
Lucien’s written that letter ? How do I 
know this is n’t an invention of yours to save 
your friend Mrs. Bewick any trouble in the 
future ? Ora plot between you and Lucien to 
get his letters back ? Where am I, then ? ” 

“ What do you want the letters for ? ” 

Keepsakes. I keep all my nice letters.” 
Evidently your stock-in-trade, thought 
Eyan. They talked some time longer. 
Susan would not believe that Lucien would 
ever let his letter go to Eose. It was all 
bluff, she said, and absolutely and Anally re- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


189 


fused to come to terms. Eyan persevered, 
saw her again and again, and waited till he 
feared Lucien would lose patience and write 
direct to Eose. He returned to the idea that 
had come to him that night he walked home 
with Fellowes. He made these extracts from 
the note-book, assuming that the Venus sym- 
bol stood for a woman. 

Went to see him. Handsome, fascinating. 
She fascinated. Angry that I came. What 
a change so soon!' 

‘‘ No letters all this time. She still away." 

Weary of solitude. Went to 's. Saw 

Allard's ^picture. Did they notice me ? 1 

could have cried out. Fdlicit^ he calls it. A 
marvellous likeness of her. They praised the 
drawing of the other figure. The other 
figure ! Very like. What does it mean ? 1 

have suffered." 

Allard has told me. I must go there. 
Can it he true " 

'Ht is true." 

On this slight material Eyan had founded 
the theory that Susan Stanier was the woman 
who had ruined Willie Eaynor, that Mr. 
Allard’s picture told something important, 
that the other figure was Butler Carstairs. 


190 


HER OWN DEVICES 


This picture, with its flagrant revelation, 
must have come upon Eaynor with its full 
shock. The picture, and what he learnt from 
Allard and from his journey, told something 
so shameful, that it turned his reason. 
Eaynor was not the man to give way merely 
because a woman had disappointed him. In 
this picture lay the key to his strange death. 
The thought of his friend, weary with long- 
ing, coming by chance across this fatal proof 
of worthless love, filled Eyan with a sense of 
the blind irony of events. It fixed his pur- 
pose, edged his curiosity. He had to avenge 
the past as well as the present. 

Eyan set to work methodically. Within 
two days he had seen Allard, and learnt from 
him that he had painted the picture when he 
was staying near Pont-Neuf, in ISTormandy, 
a farming country scarcely touched by 
tourists. One morning he had seen a woman 
at Beau Sejour, who realised his idea of the 
chief figure. He had sketched her attitude 
on the spot. Beau Sejour was a sort of 
boarding-house kept by a Mme. Dupont. 

“ I knew her pretty well. She knew most 
of the artists, English or French, who came 
there. When I told her I was in a difiiculty 


HER OWN DEVICES 


191 


about the heads in my picture, she lent me 
the photographs from which I painted the 
figures. They’re not likenesses. I’m no 
good at portraits besides, and one would n’t 
copy exactly in such a case. FdliciU I sold 
with some other small things to a dealer. 
I ’ll give you his address with pleasure.” 

The rest of their talk had been about the 
stage. Allard, once assured that he would n’t 
be dragged into a law-court or give pain to 
Eaynor’s people, had been as helpful as possi- 
ble. He gave Eyan the impression of a quiet, 
contented, thoughtful man. He talked re- 
freshingly about the stage. 

Eyan next got Mrs. Pearce to call at his 
rooms. She listened attentively to what he 
told her; but as to helping him, that, she 
said, was impossible. 

‘‘You know, Mr. Locke, what I said when 
the master died. The night before, I made 
him a promise to say nothing about him and 
her. ‘ All right, Mrs. Pearce,’ he said. ‘ What 
you ’ll promise, you ’ll do.’ I ’ve kept that 
promise. I was sorry I made it, very soon ; 
I ’ve been sorry ever since. I ’d be glad to 
help you, Mr. Locke, any other way at any 
time.” 


192 


HER OWN DEVICES 


‘"Well, it’s a pity, Mrs. Pearce; still, I 
mean to find out the truth.” 

“ Quite right, sir,” said the woman eagerly. 
“ Don’t you give up ; stick to it, Mr. Locke. 
Don’t go to the police, nor to the agents. Do 
it all yourself, if you can.” 

Mrs. Pearce’s keen black eyes glowed over 
her dead white face. 

“ I must get some one,” said Eyan. 

You go to Stanislaus Blake. He ’s all 
right. He ’s not a fool ; and he won’t take 
your money without doing the work. Good- 
day, Mr. Locke. I wish you good luck.” 

The next morning Eyan sent in his private 
card to Stanislaus Blake at his chambers in 
the Temple. Mr. Blake, a big, quiet man, very 
dark and rather sallow, impressed Eyan 
favourably. In frame and limbs he recalled 
the midland farmer; his manner and face 
suggested a Latin strain. He sat at a large 
pedestal writing-desk, kept very neat. On 
either side of it stood some shelves filled with 
railway guides, almanacs, and books of refer- 
ence. He put Eyan’s card into a little drawer 
which closed with a spring lock. 

‘‘ Well, Mr. Locke, what can I do for you ? ” 
he said, drawing a copying-press to him. 
"‘Tell me all about it.” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


193 


He looked at Eyan for a moment, took an 
open letter off the desk, a locked copying-book 
from a drawer, damped the leaves, arranged 
the pads, and put the letter in the book, then 
the book in the press, turned the screw, and 
waited. Though there was no appearance of 
quickness, the swift precision of each action 
finished the process in a few seconds. 

‘‘ I distract you,’’ said Mr. Blake. Many 
people are distracted if you do something while 
they talk.” 

You are very quick, Mr. Blake. I 
noticed you copying that letter. ” 

Do mechanical things mechanically, 
that ’s the principle. Who told you to come 
to me, Mr. Locke ? ” 

'' Mrs. Pearce. ” 

" A servant ? Pale, dark eyes, sharp 
glance ? Yes. Go on. ” 

Eyan stated his aim, and explained his 
plan. 

‘‘Yes; of course, yes. Hothing else to 
do,” said Blake, taking all Eyan’s ingenuity 
as naught. “ It ’s very simple. You want 
some one to go to Beau Sdjour and report. 
Scarcely worth coming to me, Mr. Locke, 
for this sort of thing. I ’m expensive. You 

13 


194 


HER OWN DEVICES 


see my work ’s confidential — never heard of, 
never in the papers; nothing of that kind. 
If a case gets that way, I send it on to the 
police. ” 

“ But this is confidential, you know, ” 
urged Eyan. I 'd like you to do it, and 
I 41 pay what you think fair. ” 

Quite right, Mr. Locke. Never tell a 
story to more people than you can help. 
I 41 do it, then, on my usual conditions. 
When I once take up a case, it ’s mine. I do 
what I undertake to do in my own way. I 
don’t answer questions, and I take all re- 
sponsibility. Will that suit you, Mr. 
Locke ? ” 

“ Perfectly. ” 

“ Very well. Those names and addresses 
correct, and spelt correctly ? ” said Stanislaus 
Blake, handing his notes to Eyan. '' They 
are ? Check me while I go through the 
story. ” 

He ran through the whole story without 
omitting one fact or consideration. Eyan 
prided himself on having been very clear in 
his statement. 

You see I put the events in their natural 
order, ” said Blake. “ It makes things clear. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


195 


Yes, I understand ; to wait reply to my tele- 
gram, and then wait your friend. You won’t 
expect to get the picture before, say next 
Tuesday — that ’s a week. I must allow for 
accidents. Mme. Dupont may he dead, the 
house down, and so on. ” 

“ I should be very surprised if you had it 
by then. ” 

'' Surprised and welcome, Mr. Locke, ” said 
Blake, taking a blank piece of paper on 
which he wrote in pencil ‘‘ The Eetreat, ” 
Apple-tree Place, N.W., marked it with a 
circle, directed an envelope, which he dropped 
into a tube communicating with the outer 
office. Then he wished Eyan good-day. 

“ You are sure you can send the photo- 
graphs in time ? ” he asked. 

'' Quite sure, ” said Eyan. 

By five o’clock photographs of Eaynor, 
Susan, and Carstairs were at Stanislaus 
Blake’s office. Between that day and the 
following Tuesday Eyan had time to convince 
himself that his famous theory was utterly 
absurd. 

After his late breakfast on the Tuesday 
he received a telegram. 

“ Everything as you wish. — Stanislaus. ” 


196 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Eyan telegraphed at once to Lucien to go 
at once to Pont-Neuf. 

Then he called on Eose, interrupted her 
household duties, confused her correspond- 
ence, made her go out to lunch and study 
fashions in shop-windows all the rest of the 
afternoon. 

'' You ’re a delightful companion, Eyan, ” 
said Eose, as she got out of the hansom at 
Wilmot Gardens. “ I wish your backer paid 
up the last instalment every week. ” 

Just like women, ” thought Eyan, walk- 
ing across St. James’s Park. " They always 
think they know. ” 


CHAPTEK IX 

Early on the Friday of that week Susan 
received a reply-paid telegram, asking her to 
come to Eyan’s rooms at four in the after- 
noon of the next day. She replied Accept 
your kind invitation. ” 

Till then she had a headache. 

A few minutes after the time appointed 
Susan rang the hell at the entrance to Kyan’s 
rooms in Xelson Mansions, S.W. 

“ Come in. Miss Stanier. Delighted to see 
you, ” said Eyan opening the front door and 
conducting her to the dining-room. '' You T1 
find that a comfortable chair. Yes, they he 
nice rooms. Kitchen opposite to you, bed- 
rooms on the other side of the passage. ” 

Jolly room this, ” said Susan, impressed 
by the fine quality of the furniture, carpet, 
and curtains. She thought it showed the 
absence of a woman's hand. She missed the 
crowd of knick-knacks, all the nameless signs 


198 


HER OWN DEVICES 


of a woman’s loving care. The spacious sim- 
plicity she thought bareness; she could not 
see that each of the few engravings and orna- 
ments was perfect, and was allowed space 
to do justice to itself. Who gave him cut 
dowers? She tried to remember the ladies 
at his theatre. 

Meanwhile Eyan had brought a little tea- 
tray with a spirit-lamp. 

“ Let me make it, ” cried Susan, stripping 
her hands. Take my veil. ” 

" Smart jacket, ” said Eyan. “ Navy blue ’s 
all the wear. Accept my congratulations. 
How well you ’re looking ! ” 

'' Show, mere show ; walking ’s given me a 
colour. One lump ? ” she asked, holding the 
sugar-tongs interrogatively, and giving her 
buttering hands a rest. What lovely 
tea ! ” 

Glad you like it. Have some bread and 
butter and Trench pastry. Do you care for 
French pastry ? ” 

“ Love it ! ” said Susan, taking a jam sand- 
wich cased in glazed pink sugar. " Eyan, 
there ’s going to be a new management at the 
Mayfair. ” 

" Any idea who it is ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


199 


“ Yes, I have. It’s Duncan Macleod. ” 

He ’s been hungering after management a 
long while. ” 

" Silly to make such a mystery of it. I 
saw through it at once. I haven’t told any 
one. ” 

“ Don’t. ” 

'' Not me. I shall write in at once. ” 

“ Nothing like being early, ” said Kyan, 
with an effort. ‘‘ More tea ? A cigarette, 
then ? ” 

Thanks. Hold the match. ” 

The flame lit up the seaweed eyes, brought 
out the bran-splashes, and for a moment the 
lustre of her hair flashed in the dusk. 

“ Ah, that ’s good ! ” she panted, watching 
the jet of grey smoke issue from her lips. 
'' Now for business. What do you mean by 
that telegram ? ” 

One moment. Let me ask you a ques- 
tion. ” 

" Fifty, if you like. ” 

Will you give me Lucien’s letters ? ” 

Susan laughed loud and long. 

" You persistent creature. No, I won’t; 
not one. ” 

'' Better do it friendly. I ’d much rather. 


200 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Come, Susan, be sensible. Give them up 
and avoid any fuss or bother. ” 

“ The old opening, Eyan. I Ve been there 
before. ” 

'' I warn you. If this is to be purely 
business, I shall carry it through resolutely. ” 
I ’m not afraid. ” 

‘‘ It ’s no, then ? ” 

No, it is. ” 

“ Well, that telegram meant that I know 
all about Butler Carstairs. ” 

“ What about Butler ? ” 

'' You shall see, ” said Eyan, rising and 
touching the bell. 

There was a step in the next room, the 
door opened, a woman with a parcel came in 
and advanced to the table. Eyan switched 
the light on. 

Susan and Mrs. Pearce were face to face. 
Their eyes met for a moment. Susan red- 
dened, turned her head away, and stared at the 
wall. 

Mrs. Pearce waited, calm with intense joy, 
her shining eyes fixed on Susan's whitening 
face. 

'' Send that woman away, ” said Susan 
painfully. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


201 


On one condition. You consent ? ” 

There was a long silence. They could hear 
the people in the street talking, the shouts of 
the newsboys, the cries of the conductors. 
Susan sat rigid in doubt, a half -burnt cigar- 
ette between her fingers. 

“ No, I won’t, ” she said at last. 

" Very well; I must go on,” said Eyan. 

‘'I needn’t stay! You can’t keep me 
here 1 ” she cried, jumping up. “ I shall go. 
Where ’s my veil ? ” 

She tied it on recklessly, and took her 
gloves. She had got to the door when she 
hesitated, mistrusting her impulse. 

I suppose I ’d better hear what you have 
to say, ” she said, going back to her seat. 

'' It won’t make much difference to me 
whether you do or not. I think it ’ll make 
a great deal of difference to you. ” 

Of course you say that, ” she replied. 
‘‘We can talk alone, I suppose ? ” 

“ No ; I want a witness. ” 

“ All right ; you ’re master here. You are 
business-like, Mr. Legard,” she replied, 
closing her eyes and leaning back with a 
conviction that this was “ life. ” It was 
Extra special! Verbatim report! Scare 


202 


HER OWN DEVICES 


head-lines ! The sort of thing eagerly talked 
of in dressing-rooms with exclamations of 
sham disgust. 

" Open the parcel, please, ” said Eyan to 
Mrs. Pearce. Miss Stanier, I ’m going out 
of town to-morrow night after the play. ” 

" Yes ? ” 

" To stay with a friend of Mr. James Mil- 
ler, near Euncorn. ” 

" Oh, Dugald’s father. ” 

'' Yes. Their place, Longcroft, is the next 
to my friend’s. Mr. Miller is to dine with 
us,” he continued, directing Mrs. Pearce 
with his hand. " I thought of taking that 
with me. ” 

Susan, who had avoided seeing Mrs. 
Pearce, looked towards the sideboard, follow- 
ing Eyan’s glance. The blood rushed to her 
heart ; the shape of her face changed ; her hair 
looked black against her grey skin. 

“ That ’s mine ; that ’s my picture ! ” she 
cried sharply. '' You ’ve stolen it ! It ’s 
mine ; I know it is 1 ” She was staring at a 
small picture where a red-haired, handsome 
woman lay on a chaise longue in a balcony 
amid the trellised sprays of an exotic plant. 
Her head, up-lifted, turned towards the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


203 


right, as if looking at some one there in the 
shadow. 

'' Yon can have it if you like, you know. ” 
You he a brute, Legard ; a cunning beast. 
Do you think I ’ll give you the letters for 
that, for my own property? Let me have 
it at once ! ” she cried, springing forward 
against Eyan. " If you don’t, I ’ll make a 
row ; I swear I will ! ” 

She rushed to the window and flung the 
curtain aside. 

That won’t do any good. You ’ll only 
get a crowd and the police in, ” said Eyan. 

'' If you claim the ” 

'' I do claim it — it ’s mine. ” 

“ Then you ’ll have to summon me for it. ” 
She looked to one side there was Mrs. 
Pearce, to the other there was Eyan, between 
them the picture on the sideboard. 

She stood there, silenced by choking pas- 
sion ; she looked around for something dan- 
gerous, something to hurl, or to stab with. 
There was nothing within reach. She 
dropped sullenly on a chair in the embrasure. 

“ Play it out, Mr. Legard, ” she laughed. 
" What ’s the rest of your plot ? Let ’s hear 
it. Come along ! Buck up ! ” 


204 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Eyan began walking to and fro with his 
hands in his pockets. 

" It ’s like this, ” he said slowly. '' That 
woman is you, the place is Pont-lSTeuf, the 
house Beau S^jour, kept by Mme. Th^rfese 
Dupont the ” 

" Well, well — what if it is, there ’s 
nothing in that. ” 

‘‘ There ’s something more, ” said Eyan, 
bending over the picture. '' You see she ’s 
turning as if she were speaking to some one ; 
she ’s looking up a little, too. Well, there ’s 
no one there in that shadow. The colour 's 
thicker there, too. The figure ’s been painted 
over. ” 

Some water, Mrs. Pearce, ” he exclaimed, 
startled at Susan’s face of fear. 

Mrs. Pearce poured whiskey freely into a 
tumbler and filled it up with water. Susan 
drank it eagerly. Her colour came back. 

To cut the matter short, ” said Eyan, 

“ that figure can be brought out again. 
It ’s Butler Carstairs. I propose to take 
this picture to Cheshire with me to-night 
and explain it to Mr. Miller. ” 

‘'Ho, Mr. Legard; no, you won’t! Eyan, 
don’t. That would be too cruel. You 


HER OWN DEVICES 


205 


wouldn’t do such a thing. You can’t be so 
hard; so heartless ! Say you won’t, please, 
Eyan; promise me you won’t! ” 

“ You talk of ‘ hard ’ and ' heartless. ’ 
You! Well, you ought to know. Miss 
Stanier, ” hurst out Eyan. How did you 
treat Willie Eaynor ? ” 

Mrs. Pearce quivered and swayed for a 
moment at the name. 

" You ruined my friend Eaynor. You 
drove him to his death. That was not 
enough, you must try Lucien next. Was my 
turn coming ? Very likely. Mrs. Bewick ’s 
your friend — that did n’t matter. Dugald 
Miller’s to be your husband — that didn’t 
matter. I am hard and heartless, am I ? 
Quite the other way. If it hadn’t been for 
Eose, I ’d have gone to Mr. Miller at once. 
You can thank Eose for this warning. ” 

" Pity she wouldn’t marry you. ” 

" I knew you were jealous of her, ” said 
Eyan ; and after a slight pause he continued, 
“ lock that picture up, Mrs. Pearce ; here ’s 
the key. Well, Miss Stanier, that ’s all I 
have to tell you. I needn’t keep you. 
Thank you, ” he said, as Mrs. Pearce returned 
the key of the cabinet. 


206 


HER OWN DEVICES 


'' It ’s an infernally clever trap 1 There ’s 
no getting away from that, ” exclaimed Susan. 
“ You can have the letters, Eyan, if you T1 
give me my picture hack. ” 

You assume ! If the letters — all the 
letters — are at the theatre by a quarter to 
eight to-night, I T1 ask you to accept that 
painting, ” replied Eyan. 

'' I ’d rather it did n't go to the theatre,” 
said Susan. 

Will you call for it, then. Mrs. Pearce 
will be here, or my servant. What time is 
Eead coming back ? ” 

“He didn't say any particular time, sir. 
I was to wait for him, ” said Mrs. Pearce. 

“ Mrs. Pearce can give it you, then. ” 

“ I 'd rather fetch it on Monday. I sha'n't 
be able to bring the letters myself, perhaps ; 
but you shall have them, to be given to you 
personally, ” said Susan, putting on her 
gloves. 

Eyan handed her her umbrella, and opened 
the door. 

“Ho reason why we should n’t shake 
hands, ” said Susan lightly. They shook 
hands silently, and she went out. 

Eyan sat there a long time brooding so 


HER OWN DEVICES 


207 


intently that Mrs. Pearce had to ask him 
twice whether she might go out for a few 
minutes. 

Oh, yes ; of course — certainly. Going 
back to-night, Mrs. Pearce ? ” 

‘‘ No, sir. I ’m sleeping at a friend’s. ” 
Mrs. Pearce, you could tell me now. 
You see I know a good deal. ” 

‘‘ I promised to say nothing about her and 
him. I ’m sorry not to oblige you, sir. ” 

“ Oh, you ’re right. Thank you for coming 
to help me. By-the-bye, Mrs. Pearce, you 
might like to have this, ” he said, detaching 
his watch from the chain. It was Mr. 
Eaynor’s. ” 

'' You give me his watch, Mr. Eyan ! ” 

For once Mrs. Pearce was taken aback. 

" Yes, I thought you ’d like it ! ” 

She took the watch from him thankfully. 

“ Me and you, sir, we loved him, ” she 
said, and went away quickly. 

Eyan was just starting when she came 
back. He wished her good-bye hurriedly. 

About half-an-hour afterwards Mrs. Pearce 
was patiently trying to fit a key to the cab- 
inet. In time she succeeded, and took out 
the picture. 


208 


HER OWN EE VICES 


I ’ve not said anything about her and him, 
and I ’m not going to, ” she thought. Mrs. 
Pearce was superstitious in the literal obser- 
vance of an obligation. A little later some 
one called. Then it was quiet till Eyan’s 
man returned and set Mrs. Pearce free. 

On this same evening Lucien Bewick paced 
the Breton shore, where the sea limits the 
lands of Kersanton. He had been here a 
long while, till the afternoon of St. Martin’s 
summer had sunk to dusk as the faint rose 
and blue of the sunset waned to grey. He 
had got to be fond of this soft Breton air, of 
the country, of the people. The peace of this 
quiet home, steeped in legend and sad 
romance, had come to him at a time when he 
needed peace and seclusion. The ordered 
life at the chateau, with mornings of work 
in M. de Froncemagne’s room, the journeys 
to Breton or Norman villages, to copy a 
specimen of some old builder’s work, and 
the solitary hours when the Count and his 
sister had retired, came to passion-fevered 
Lucien as twilight after meridian sun. 

He had come fresh from the disgust of his 
last interview with Susan, fresh from the 


HER OWN DEVICES 


209 


humiliating perception of what her nature 
was. Before then he had caught glimpses of 
the streaks of coarseness in Susan, hut it had 
been easy to shut his eyes, and keep his 
fool’s paradise intact. 

Now when she was tired of him — people 
are coming hack now ” — she let him see her 
as she really was. Perhaps it was done on 
purpose to sicken him. She had laughed at 
his delicacy often enough. 

The first days at Kersanton had been 
bitter with hopeless, shameful love. The 
recent past — a past of yesterday — filled his 
solitude with poignant details. They came 
back so vividly, that the theatre seemed to be 
next to the Creizker, and its airy steeple to 
recall the stunted towers of the Horse Guards. 

Physical passion still had its grip on him, 
a grip stimulated by regretful imagination, 
but wanting the nourishment of intercourse. 

Like some charms in magic, a certain sort 
of love requires the spell to be renewed or 
the victim recovers. Moving tricks of manner 
or tone or look in time lose their effect on 
the imagination, especially when Memory’s 
half-brother. Criticism, insists on accompany- 
ing him. It was not that Lucien’s love 

14 


210 


HER OWN HE VICES 


lessened, but that other feelings had a chance 
of asserting themselves. They had been 
stupefied by the first shock, and held down 
brutally until now ; but they were the oldest 
and strongest forces of Lucien’s nature, and 
they would surely arise in time. At first 
the merest shiver of sensation had passed 
along their fibres. That was enough, though ; 
paralysis and sensation do not go together. 

This quiet serious city, the grave priests, 
the houses of a past age, reminded Lucien of 
the town where he had first known his wife. 
Eose was often in his thoughts now, but not 
for long. He could not think of her con- 
tinuously. She was a shining figure behind 
a streaming cloud, caught sight of through 
the rents. 

One evening he had been writing to Eose 
in the vast sombre library. The house- 
keeper had brought the silver tray with 
cognac and English whiskey, had wished him 
good-night, and left him writing under the 
branches of the ancient candelabra. The 
tall candles cast a ball of light on to the 
desk, beyond there was darkness ; outside the 
faint rhythm of rain, inside silence. He read 
over his letter. Just the kind of letter he 


HER OWN DEVICES 


211 


had written for years. He had learnt to 
imitate himself. Then, as in a flash, the 
falseness of it all leapt out before him. The 
letter was a deception, part of a greater 
deception of his life for all these months. 
He threw it down, and started walking up 
and down in the darkness. The course of his 
secret love rose up an uncontrollable flood. 
Its beginning, its progress, its culmination, 
each with its salient events, swept past him. 

The petty scheming, the paltry successes, 
the careful silences and the politic avowals, 
all these devices to deceive one who never 
suspected, came hack in due order. Nothing 
was spared him. His mind disgorged an 
accumulation of remorse. Down this stream, 
beside the facts, raced a crowd of hopes, 
desires, and wild imaginings — Lucien Be- 
wick’s mental food all this time. He had 
the strange idea that this was being done for 
some one to pass judgment on, some one who 
stood watching the swift procession. 

He did not understand this outburst; he 
had not willed it, and he could not check it. 

If for a moment he thought of something 
else, he could do so only to And the stream 
had waited for him. It ran on, showing 


212 


HER OWN DEVICES 


something so mean and weak, that Lucien 
asked himself in horror, Was I like that ? ” 

It reached its end, he thought, when he 
recognised himself smiling hack to Eose as 
the train left Victoria and he could think of 
Susan. But it had not ended. The rivers of 
Hades are circular. It began again, the same 
current, the same freight, the same course. 
So it circled many times, silent, unreproach- 
ful, saying nothing, showing everything. 

The thick candles were half-burnt. It 
must be late, thought Lucien. He unbarred 
the shutters, opened the window ; the rain 
was over, and the cool night air rushed in. 
Looking into the darkness he thought, or 
tried to think, for still the river whirled. 
At last he had resolved. Then he went back 
to the desk, tore up his letter, and wrote 
another. It was the letter he had sent to 
Kyan — a letter terrible to write, as Lucien 
wrote it in bare, formal style. A model of 
clear statement, free from apologies, self- 
accusations, or pleadings ; nothing but a 
relation of what he had done. Everything 
Eose had a right to know was there. Susan 
appeared as much as was necessary. 

As to the future, he suggested nothing. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


213 


He felt that Eose’s decision, whatever it 
might be, would govern that. 

Soon after dawn he finished the letter. 
Feeling quite wakeful, he went to bed and 
slept profoundly. 

Kyan's answer disappointed him. He dis- 
approved of the letter entirely. What pre- 
cise form of a fool you Ve made of yourself 
with Susan does n’t matter,” wrote Eyan. 
“ But what does matter is telling Eose ; that 
means giving her pain needlessly. No doubt 
voluntary confession is a very fine and noble 
action, quite de rigueur according to some 
people. I don’t agree with them. You re- 
member the sort of boy who used to confess 
in the hope of getting off lighter. He did n’t, 
and we rejoiced. Don’t think, Luce, that I 
accuse you of posing. I am thinking in ink. 
Is confession made to the injured person ? 
To a confessor, is n’t it? Trust those people, 
they know. Eemember, Luce, people who 
confess run the risk of being believed. Have 
you quite thought out the effect of your 
jproces-verhal, your Ehadaman thine statement ? 
How do you think Eose will like it ? ” 

Eyan developed the '' riding-straight to 
hounds,” morality at some length. It’s a 


214 


HER OWN DEVICES 


fair working code, but it does n’t appeal to 
non-hunting men. Besides Eyan’s effort to 
make morality and Eose’s peace of mind 
coincide was too evident. Lucien’s decision 
had been sincere, and he still wished Eose to 
have the letter. Eyan’s appeal influenced 
him so far that he consented to a short 
delay. Eyan’s telegram urging him to tele- 
graph to a Mr. Stanislaus Blake saying what 
time he would reach Pont-Neuf came a few 
days later. 

He had been there. He had seen Mr. 
Stanislaus Blake. He had been shown pho- 
tographs of a woman and of a man, an actor 
named Butler Carstairs, and of another man, 
of his friend Willie Eaynor. The woman 
was Susan Stanier. She must have looked 
just the same two years ago as she did now. 
There was no need to compare these photo- 
graphs with the others Mr. Blake had with 
him. Not much need for Lucien to follow 
Mr. Blake’s minute examination of dates of 
arrival and departure. Whatever the par- 
ticulars might be, there was no doubt that 
Willie Eaynor had come here for some infor- 
mation — whether confirmation or contradic- 
tion was not clear — some weeks after Susan 


HER OWN DEVICES 


215 


left, that he had learnt something, that he 
had gone back and died. 

This woman who had ruined Willie was 
the woman for whom he, Lucien, had sunk 
to unknown depths. From Willie she had 
learnt about his friends. They must have 
talked about him and Eose and Eyan. 
Susan came to him knowing all Willie could 
tell her. She had used her knowledge. 
While he and Eose and Eyan were in the dark, 
Susan knew. She could guard against any 
suspicion, though suspicion was very unlikely. 
No one knew her. He had quarrelled with 
Willie, and Eyan was away all that season. 
Only one source of detection — Willie’s ser- 
vant. That was why, thought Lucien — 
that was the reason Susan got out of that 
omnibus so hurriedly before taking her seat. 
She must have seen Mrs. Pearce. Certainly 
Mrs. Pearce saw her, and stared at her with- 
out noticing Lucien. At the time he had 
put Susan’s conduct down to mere whim. 
He understood it now. Even if Mrs. Pearce 
would say nothing, Susan would avoid her. 

The more he thought, the more revolting 
the whole thing appeared. She must have 
deliberately planned to make him love her. 


216 


HER OWN DEVICES 


That a woman — a respectable woman — 
should do such a thing was repulsive. She 
had rehearsed her effects with his dead friend. 
What had succeeded with Willie she had 
used with Lucien. Under the search-light of 
his new knowledge Susan had not a rag left. 
Even the poor bit of impulse and sincerity 
she really had was put down as artifice. 

Lucien had one strong wish about Susan 
— never to see her again, never to speak to 
her, not to let her hand ever rest again in 
his. She had done him the worst of ser- 
vices. She had let him see how bad he could 
be. The moral disgust became translated 
into physical loathing. Now he wanted to 
shake off the degradation, the vulgarity she 
had brought into his life. Lucien had always 
been lenient to women who had the excuse 
of sincerity in passion. With himself, now, 
he made the same allowance. He had been 
disloyal, untrue, and a hundred other things 
that were bad. But he had been in earnest, 
he had been sincere. It was a poor excuse 
at best, still it stood him in good stead now. 
It put him above Susan. 

Watching the darkness fall on the grey 
sea till only the white wave-crests were visi- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


217 


ble, he reviewed the episodes of his love in 
the new light he had got. They gained new 
meanings — not always correct ones. The 
talk they had one wet evening, as they 
lingered in Baker Street for the omnibus, 
came back to him. Luce,’’ Susan had said 
in her abrupt fashion, “ why does a woman 
become a man’s mistress ? ” 

He had tried to put her off with some 
common-place, but she returned to the 
strange subject. She would discuss any sub- 
ject with him, and she was fond of these 
forbidden subjects. They talked as they 
strolled along the wet flickering pavement. 
Susan could not realise that love could make 
a woman sacrifice herself. She saw no moral 
reason against such a thing. It did not 
shock her. But why do it ? 

'' I should never be any man’s mistress,” 
she had said at last. 

Yet she had gone to Beau S4jour with 
Carstairs. 


CHAPTEE X 


When Eyan drove up to his rooms in Sloane 
Street on the Monday afternoon following his 
interview with Susan, the first person he saw 
was that lady herself. It was a meeting he 
had tried to avoid by returning as late as 
possible. Nor did it please Susan either, as 
her face showed while she watched Eyan 
paying the cabman. 

'' How d’ ye do, Mr. Legard,’’ she said 
lightly, as he came up to her. I Ve been 
so driven all day I couldn’t come before. 
See, I Ve got my picture [she held up the 
parcel]. Miss Stanforth ’s ill, and may not 
play to-night. I Ve had half a rehearsal, and 
been rushing about getting things. They Ve 
in that cab. After all I suppose she ’ll 
struggle through gallantly, and I shall have 
my trouble for nothing, as usual. Who 
would n’t be an understudy ? ” 

A nuisance, of course,” said Eyan ; but 
you know the play by this time ? ” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


219 


" Not her scenes,” exclaimed Susan. I ’d 
been studying the other part — Miss La- 
ment’s ; it ’s the part, the woman’s part of the 
piece, so I’ve gone for it hard. Then the 
other lady gets ill. So I shall either have to 
play the part without a rehearsal, or watch 
her every night from the front till she ’s well 
again. Now I must rush home for a bit of 
dinner, and then back to the theatre again. 
So good-bye. Come and see me at the 
Thursday matinee. I’m pretty certain to 
play then.” 

Let me give you this when you ’ve got 
in,” said Eyan, taking up the picture, still 
wrapped in brown paper. 

Susan got in the hansom, arranged a lot 
of soft paper packets very carefully, and then 
took the picture from Eyan. 

Thanks, very much. Hope you had a 
good time in Cheshire, Mr. Legard. Tell him 
where to go, will you ? ” 

“St. John’s Wood, I suppose?” 

“Yes, of course. You know.” 

“ I don’t. It was intuition.” 

“ Seemed likely, did it ? You thought 


To the manner born.’ 


220 


HER OWN EE VICES 


“Circus Eoad,” cried Susan, through the 
hole in the roof, and as the cab turned she 
gave Eyan a view of a profile in anger. 

“ That was cheek asking about Cheshire,” 
thought Eyan, going in. “ And I don’t see 
why she should flare up because I thought 
she belonged to the St. John’s Wood painting 
lot. Nasty temper, that girl ! ” 

It would have tried any one, however, to get 
down to the theatre on the Thursday expect- 
ing to play at the matinde, and to find your 
principal had come and was dressing. This 
after seeing the wretched piece three nights 
running, getting some scrappy rehearsals, and 
rushing about London matching things ! 

Susan hung about the wings until the first 
act was nearly over. Then she went to the 
front to condole with the friends she had 
sent seats to. 

“ I ’m awfully disappointed. Miss Stanier,” 
said Shepherd, whom she met in the lobby. 
“ Quite counted on seeing you. You ’d have 
taken that widow’s part capitally.” 

“It was the other I expected to play,” 
replied Susan. “Will you wait a few 
minutes ? I want to see some people in 
the stalls. You’re not going to sit it out?” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


221 


Certainly not. Once is enough.’' 

Shepherd waited, smoking, till Susan 
returned. 

“ Shall we get some tea ? ” she suggested. 

I ’m right down.” 

As they went towards Giuseppe Joe’s she 
told her story in detail. 

“ Then at the end you ’re told you ’re a 
tonic,” she concluded. “ Kind of Miss Stan- 
forth, was n’t it ? ” 

They sat there a long while drinking tea 
and smoking cigarettes. Susan was too 
angry to care about appearances, and, be- 
sides, there was no one else in the caf^. She 
was fretful and scornful, silent or voluble. 
One moment she would go home, the next 
she would dine in town, as she had arranged 
to do. Shepherd found her embarrassing, 
still he was conscious of being Bohemian. 
It was possible to be Bohemian and dull at 
the same time. Still there was no getting 
away from the facts. He was smoking cigar- 
ettes in a caf^ with an actress. As a bar- 
rister he had to know the world ; it gave one 
a great pull with juries. 

Suddenly Susan declared she had a head- 
ache ; she was going home to lie down ; and 


222 


HER OWN DEVICES 


if she did n’t wake in time for the theatre 
that was their lookout. 

“ Eum thing life, is n’t it ? ” reflected Susan, 
as they walked towards Parliament Street. 
‘‘ Nothing hut worry and disappointment, 
particularly in the profession.” 

Oh, well you do have excitement,” urged 
Shepherd. ‘‘Look at the law. You sit in 
chambers all day, no client comes, you read 
law or you write it. Next day the same ; all 
days the same. Go to chambers, go to lunch, 
go back, and never a brief. There ’s nothing 
for it but philosophy.” 

“ What ’s your philosophy, Mr. Shepherd ? 
Are you a Stoic like Mr. Bewick ? — a belated 
Stoic, he calls himself.” 

“ Bewick ’s not a Stoic. He ’s the same as 
I am — a Cyrenaic.” 

“ A what ? Spell it.” 

“ S-i-r-e-n-a-i-c,” said Shepherd, dividing the 
letters, and confusing the subject. 

“ I never heard of it,” said Susan. 

“That is not necessary,” said Shepherd. 
“M. Jourdan had never heard of prose.” 

“No, he hadn’t,” said Susan, doubtful 
whether Jourdan was a person one ought 
to know about. “ Fancy you and Lucien 
having the same philosophy.” 


HER OWN DEVICES 


223 


'' It ’s a very comprehensive school/’ 

‘‘Would it serve my purpose?” she 
asked. 

“ I should think it would.” 

“ There ’s the ’bus. Some day you ’ll tell 
me more about the Cyrenaic — is that 
right ? ” 

“ Sounds right.” 

“ Cyrenaic philosophy, won’t you, Mr. 
Shepherd ? ” 

“ Shall be delighted,” he said, handing her 
into the omnibus. 

At “ The Eetreat ” she found a pencil note 
for her. 

“ Who is this from ? ” she wondered, look- 
ing at the outside after the manner of women 
who regard every envelope as a riddle or 
a challenge. Puzzled, she opened and 
read : — 

“ Deak Susan, — I am going to America 
by the 5 p. m. from Euston. I thought you 
would come with me to some shops and see 
me off. My father ’s in London, too. I 
wanted to tell you all about it, but I can’t 
wait. I shall call at Mrs. Bewick’s if I have 
time. Perhaps you ’ll be there. Kemember, 


224 


HER OWN DEVICES 


it ’s the 5 p. m. from Euston. — Yours always 
sincerely, 

"‘Dugald Miller.” 

She didn’t understand it! Dugald going 
to America ! All of a sudden like this ! 
Why had n’t he told her ? She would have 
contrived to see him. 'Now she could n’t. 
The train had gone ; it was nearly half -past 
five. Why hadn’t she come straight home 
instead of fooling the time away in the cafe ? 
Then she cried. She hated to cry ; she 
never cried freely. Her tears were reluc- 
tant ; just a few that would come, that came 
again and again, though she dabbed them up 
at once. 

Dugald did not know how much he meant 
to her. She had thought it was n’t time to 
let him know yet. But he was in her plans 
for the future. She had thought it all out, 
and she was fond of him, too — fond enough. 
He had gone to America, for years, most 
likely. Anyhow, she would n’t see him. I 
shall call at Mrs. Bewick’s,” he said. “ Why 
at Mrs. Bewick’s ? Why should her friends 
run after Mrs. Bewick ? Eose was no par- 
ticular friend of Dugald. Susan had intro- 


HER OWN DEVICES 


225 


duced them. Why couldn’t he wait, or 
come back again ? Eose made every one 
fond of her ; Eyan Legard would do anything 
for her ; Shepherd thought Eose the best 
woman in the world ; and now Dugald must 
go to her in his last hours in England. Very 
likely she had been choosing socks for him 
at the stores this afternoon. 

Susan had a hurried dinner, and set off 
for Wilmot Gardens. 

'' Mistress will be down immediately. Miss 
Stanier,” said the discreet Sharpe entirely on 
her own responsibility. Shall I take your 
umbrella, miss ? Would you like a cup of 
tea. Miss Stanier ? ” 

These and other kind inquiries Sharpe 
made with just enough pause between them 
to give any one who had anything to say an 
opportunity of saying it. To-day Miss Stanier 
had nothing to say. Sharpe retired un- 
abashed. 

Susan waited in the well-known drawing- 
room, noticed a slight alteration in the furni- 
ture and the new palm by the window. 
Some music was open on the piano, the 
flowers smelt freshly, the debris of afternoon 
tea remained. 


15 


226 


HER OWN DEVICES 


It was clean, homelike, easy, ordered. It 
recalled the haphazard style of ‘‘The Ee- 
treat,” the bareness, the disorder, the go-as- 
you-please life of shifts and devices. Why 
was nT her home like this ? Would she ever 
have a nice home like other women ? 

There was a rustle in the passage. Eose 
came in all rose — rose-pink dress, roses in 
her hair, rose-lined opera-cloak, and roses in 
her face. She looked admirable in the low 
evening dress — bright, buoyant, radiant. 

“Forgive my keeping you waiting,” she 
said. “I’m dining with the Valances to- 
night at the Grand. We’re going to see 
Eyan act afterwards. I thought you’d come 
this evening.” 

“ Eose, I ’ve been so busy. I ’ve been com- 
ing to see you so often. Every time I ’ve 
been prevented. One tiling or another, you 
know.” 

“ I know, dear.” 

“ What news of Lucien ? ” 

“The best. He’s coming back,” replied 
Eose. “We won’t talk about him, will we? 
I want to tell you about Dugald — I’m to 
call him Dugald now. He’s a nice boy, 
Susan, and very fond of you, I ’m glad to say. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


227 


He ’s been talking of you and agriculture all 
the time. What are phosphates ? I led him 
to believe that I knew.” 

‘‘He shouldn’t talk shop to you” said 
Susan. 

He explained that he only did that with 
the elect — the right sort, you know, as he 
puts it.” Eose went on, "‘Take off your 
jacket, Susan ; the room ’s close. Well, it was 
like this. I had just got the lights, and I 
was trying that new piece of Grieg’s, when 
in comes your Mr. Miller. ‘I’ve got a 
cab at the door,’ he said, ‘and I’m going 
to America. Come and see me off, Mrs. 
Bewick. ’ ” 

“That’s just like Dugald,” said Susan, 
smiling. 

“ Of course I was n’t going to be hustled 
like that,” continued Eose, “ so I made him 
sit down and explain.” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“Well, it ’s been a hurry, and a flurry, and 
a surprise altogether. You know he’s been 
wanting to go to one of the professors in the 
agricultural department near Washington. 
Suddenly his father telegraphs to him to 
come home. When he gets there he finds 


228 


HER OWN DEVICES 


his father has arranged, by cable, for him to 
go by the Doric this evening. Dugald was 
delighted.” 

‘‘He would be.” 

“ Mr. Miller made one condition. Dugald 
was to tell no one outside his family till he 
got to London. ‘ It looked a little like being 
sent away, did n’t it ? ’ he asked me. I told 
him that was absurd; there was no reason, 
he must know that. And then, Susan, he 
blushed, and got quite embarrassed. ‘Well, 
there ’s nothing I know of. Father may have 
a reason. Father’s a good sort — another of 
the elect,, you see — but he has his own way 
of doing things.’” 

“ How long will he be away ? ” 

“ Three years, perhaps more. He formally 
bade me good-bye until 1897. He had come 
up to London for some letters of introduc- 
tion, and for some business at the Embassy, 
and to bid good-bye to his friends. He’s 
given me some messages for you.” 

Eose gave her those messages, simple, col- 
loquial sentences, so that they seemed to be 
charged with feeling, with sympathy, and 
with promise for the future. 

“ Dear, how sad you could n’t be there ! 


HER OWN DEVICES 


229 


He felt it,” she said, taking Susan’s hand — 
an unresponsive hand. “ I sent Sharpe to 
the theatre in a cab, telling you to drive 
straight to the station. He’ll write to you 
to-night, Susan.” 

‘‘ You told him to ? ” 

“ I thought you would like it. Three 
years is n’t so long as it sounds,” said Eose. 
“ I waited four for Lucien. Must you go to 
the theatre, Susan? If you’d rather stay 
with me. I’ll send a note to Mrs. Valance. 
I can explain to her afterwards. You ’ll be 
happier here, perhaps.” 

“ Thanks. I must go to the theatre,” said 
Susan. ''Did any one else see him off? 
Only you ? ” 

" Come to-morrow, dear, and I ’ll tell you 
all I have forgotten,” said Eose as she left. 
" Stay here till it ’s time for you to go.” 

She kissed her, and thought she understood 
why Susan did not return her kiss. 

Susan sat there alone till she had to leave. 
She thought more of Eose than of Dugald ; 
she could n’t make Eose out. When Sharpe 
had helped her to put on her jacket she idly 
tried the new piece on the piano. It was too 
hard. Her fingers slid into the notes of her 


230 


HER OWN DEVICES 


song in Lucien’s opera. It was accidental; 
curious, too, if you thought of it ; perfectly 
natural, where she had the thing by heart. 
Thinking how oddly things fell out she 
walked to the theatre, where she heard gladly 
that Miss Stanforth was playing. She went 
home early. 

A letter for you, Susan,’’ said her sister. 

It rains letters to-day,” she said, going off 
to her room. 

She opened the letter. It was very short. 

‘‘ I hope you got the picture all right. — 
Mary Pearce.” 

Susan knew Mary Pearce. A line like 
this from her meant a great deal. She took 
the picture from its hiding-place and opened 
the parcel carefully. 

Then it was clear what Mrs. Pearce meant. 
The figure in the shadow had reappeared, and 
a good likeness of Butler Carstairs looked 
down to the appealing woman on the chaise 
longue, 

A long while Susan studied the picture, 
trying to piece things together. She had 
always feared this woman, and had never 
quite understood her silence. She knew 
nothing of Mrs. Pearce’s promise to Eaynor, 


HER OWN DEVICES 


231 


nor, had she known of it, would she have 
foreseen what a curiously literal construction 
Mrs. Pearce would put upon it. 

Women of that class if truthful are truth- 
ful like children, verbally truthful. A promise 
is binding exactly as far as it goes. No 
farther. It ’s like the old compacts with 
Satan. You must observe it in every word ; 
but if you can get outside it, you are free to 
break it without breaking it. Mrs. Pearce 
had promised never to say anything about 
“her and him.” That was a promise about 
two people jointly. She was free to say what 
she liked about them separately, or with 
other people. That afternoon at Eyan’s had 
shown Mrs. Pearce the way to a long-desired 
vengeance. Susan could not see the method, 
but the result was plain. 

Mrs. Pearce had heard the story, knew 
how to use this weapon, and had used it. 
She had got some one to clear the figure of 
Carstairs, perhaps to touch it up. She had 
seen Dugald’s father on the Sunday morning, 
and had managed to replace the picture on 
the Monday morning. Clear enough so far. 
But was it likely that a man of business like 
the elder Miller would act on the unsupported 


232 


HER OWN DEVICES 


statement of a stranger. It was not likely. 
Mrs. Pearce knew that. She had referred 
him to Eyan, who was at that very moment 
staying at the nearest house. She had most 
likely told him that Eyan would not answer 
any questions and why he would n’t. Prob- 
ably Mr. Miller had said nothing to Eyan. 
He had preferred to act in his own way. 
His care was for his son ; he had no concern 
with any one else, no interest in raking up 
an old story about strangers. He must be a 
cool, decisive man, Mr. Miller. He had acted 
quietly, swiftly, effectually. Dugald was on 
the way to America now. 

With him w^ent Susan’s hopes of reaching 
the haven of evident respectability. Her 
nature ever swung in unstable equilibrium, 
now to the Bohemia of stage-doors and res- 
taurants, now to the Philistia of suburban 
trains and two maid-servants. A grain of 
talent, and she would have chosen the first ; 
some self-control, and the other would have 
come to her. 

As it was, Dugald had gone, Lucien 
despised her, Eyan knew her, and Eose was 
kind to her. 

She put the picture away, undressed 


HER OWN DEVICES 


233 


mechanically, and lay in bed thinking, always 
thinking now of the days with Willie Eaynor, 
when she cared for him and liked to hear him 
talk of his friends, Lucien Bewick and Eyan 
Locke, and of Lucien’s peerless wife Eose. 
Willie first made her jealous of Eose. He 
thought there was no one like her. It was 
exasperating to hear him talk of her. Those 
three — Lucien, Willie, and Eyan — seemed to 
be eternally singing a chorus of praise to Eose. 
That was the beginning of her idea of getting 
to know the other two men, just to see what 
would happen. You could n’t call it really a 
plan, for the slightest thing would have made 
her give it up. Then Willie died of an over- 
dose of some dangerous medicine. Mrs. Pearce 
told her that the last time she went to the 
studio, the last time she had seen Mrs. Pearce 
till the other day. How oddly things come 
round ! Eeally, it was Willie Eaynor who 
had sent Dugald away. The connection was 
obvious. You could trace it — but tracing of 
this kind either awakens or sends to sleep. 
Susan slipped over the boundaries of con- 
sciousness, just into that hidden land of sleep 
which is only not wakefulness, because every- 
thing is so vivid, so distinct there, because 


234 


HER OWN DEVICES 


there the dead seem to live, and those who are 
far away come hack and are with us. 

She was dreaming of the last season at the 
St. George’s, when Butler Carstairs came — 
Butler Carstairs, whose portrait she had seen 
in the shop windows years ago, before she 
went on the stage. He was the handsomest 
man in London. Much talked of, too. He 
had come back to her. They were at the 
theatre. He was pretending that he would go 
over to France with her, when she went to 
her friends near Amiens at the end of the 
season. He was at the station. Then he was 
on the boat talking to her under the dark sky 
and white stars, while the sea-spray dashed 
over the bows and fell on them, and they 
laughed. His voice went over her as the ship 
went over the falling, rising sea. The motion 
was fascinating, mesmerising. Long and long 
they stood there together, while the ample 
moon struck the wave-crests, and the stars 
shed a warm radiance. Then there w^ere 
strange spectral lights ahead, growing more 
and more distinct, till they resolved into har- 
bour lights. There were shrieks and whistles 
breaking the glorious dream, breaking it, but 
not for long ; for now she was in the train, 


HER OWN DEVICES 


235 


rushing through a darkness of shadowy trees 
and gloomy houses, and large soft masses 
that were churches. It was lovely whirling 
on like this, with Butler's voice still in her 
ear. He was asking her to do something; 
he was very persistent. Why did he want 
her to get out at that station ? It was n’t hers. 
She had got out, and she was fast asleep in 
her room at the hotel near some French rail- 
way station. Blazing sun and a French maid 
were awakening her. It is a day of close heat, 
making one languorous and limp. Butler is 
there, kind and sweet, very distinguished in 
his well-made quiet clothes. Her dream gets 
tangled here. She has the sense of something 
to do, something she ought to do, something 
she cannot do because it will take her from 
him. Oh, yes, that ’s it. She has to go to 
Amiens, and telegraph home that she has 
arrived. They must know at home ; but the 
friends at Amiens do not expect her till to- 
morrow. Butler understands at once. She 
writes a telegram and a letter, which he sends 
on by train to be despatched from the 
right place. She can see the man who is to 
take it, an old thin man with bright eyes. 
Butler makes him repeat his instructions. 


236 


HER OWN DEVICES 


Her next sensation is of driving through a 
pretty country in the odorous dusk of a sum- 
mer's evening. A brilliant sunset has passed, 
leaving an afterglow that lights the upper 
heavens. On they go; the carriage glides, 
they talk but little, the silence is better. She 
wants always to go on driving, smoothly 
rolling to a golden, mysterious, ever-receding 
future. She glows with suffused strange 
pleasure. All things have gone ; there are only 
she and Butler, a few timid stars, and a kindly 
moon. All her life seems to have been made 
for these sweet moments ; now she lives, and 
life is glorious. Dim sculptural figures with 
burdens pass them ; the ruddy eyes of an en- 
gine shoot across the distance, and the rattle 
of the train vibrates the still air. From a 
misty heath they plunge between high hedges 
into deep lanes, and jolt luxuriously in the 
rutted path. 

ISText she is in sudden light. A woman is 
speaking English wdth a French accent in a 
high-pitched voice. She remembers a bal- 
cony with grape-like bunches of creamy 
flowers, a clean-smelling house, and a large 
homely room with open windows level with 
the floor. She and Butler are having dinner. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


237 


She feels strangely dull and unhappy, and 
drinks champagne that makes her duller. 
Suddenly she revives. She and Butler are 
alone in the darkened room. He is making 
cigarettes for her, she is sipping a whiskey 
and soda. Outside the boughs rise and fall, 
a patch of moonlight shifts on the grass, and 
there is water running through the hatches of 
a stream. 

Another sound, too — the sound of a com- 
pelling voice lulling her, surrounding her, 
weaving a network of sound about her. Ten- 
der, pleading dark eyes are looking into hers, 
stirring her with wild thoughts. Arms are 
about her; she is kissed, oh, many times, and 
kisses in return. She has been leaning on 
his breast a long while ; he is leading her 
away. Then — she sees it all again, feels as 
she felt — she hesitates, stops, and clutches 
at something. There is a crash, a dull noise, 
and she has fallen I 

Susan was broad awake now. She turned 
the gas up, and her white, aspinalled strip of 
a room jumps out of darkness. 

She threw open the window and welcomed 
the night wind, cold as it is. Wrapped in an 
old ulster, she sat thinking over that vivid 


238 


HER OWN DEVICES 


dream — how it all came back just as it hap- 
pened ! She had pulled a cabinet down and 
fallen, spraining her ankle badly. Mme. 
Dupont, to whom Beau S^jour belonged, had 
been very kind. Butler had been very good ; 
he had done exactly as she told him. He 
was n’t much good at devising, but he was 
devoted. Between them no one ever knew 
that she was at Beau S4jour all that time. 
What a trouble it was keeping those in Eng- 
land and those at Amiens properly informed 
— the fear of them writing to one another ! 
Any accident might cause it. Luck was on 
her side, however. It was all right in the 
end. 

Poor, dear Butler — how good he was ! 
She could see him on that last afternoon look- 
ing down at her just as he was in the pic- 
ture. She had never seen him since. He 
had told her about his wife. He was going 
to Australia to get away from her. Poor 
Butler! The best people were always the 
most unhappy. 

After all, it had come out. In spite of 
everything, her one burst of real love virtu- 
ally ruined her. Dugald would have married 
her ; she was sure of that. She would have 


HER OWN DEVICES 


239 


been as well off as most women, respected, 
respectable. Whose fault was it, then ? Hers ? 
Ho. Susan never blamed herself ; she blamed 
others or circumstances, never herself. How 
she blamed Eose ; she utterly hated her. It 
was Eose that Eaynor maundered of, Eose that 
Lucien worshipped, Eose that Eyan fought 
for. And she was the last to see Dugald. 

Would Eyan tell that story of Beau S^jour 
to Lucien ? She ought to have made him 
promise not to. She had n’t thought of it at 
the time. On the Monday it was too late ; 
he could have written. Lucien might know 
by now. It was curious he had n’t written. 
Surely he knew her well enough not to take 
that Embankment scene too seriously. If he 
knew, would he tell Eose ? Did Eose suspect 
anything ? At times it looked as if she did. 

So through the long hours she thought of 
Eose, always of Eose, till her anger and 
hatred grew to passionate desire for revenge 
— it was in her power — a delicious revenge, 
in spite of Eyan Legard. 

A London dawn was breaking when at last 
she lay down and slept without dreaming. 

The next day Susan Stanier was ill, and 
the one following, and for many other days. 


240 


HER OWN DEVICES 


She had to go to deserted St. Joseph's. It 
was dull, but bracing. She came back well, 
and soon picked up again. When she felt 
quite strong she returned to her idea of 
revenge. The sense of being beaten was 
unbearable ; moreover, she was angry because 
no one had troubled about her — no one 
cared whether she was alive or dead. As 
no one knew she had been ill, they were 
not likely to inquire about Susan. Her 
friends were used to her irresponsible ways, 
and literally took her as she came. 

It was on a Saturday morning of a mild 
hTovember that Susan set to work. She took 
from her desk two letters, read them, re- 
placed them in the envelopes, and went 
out, having so timed herself that she reached 
the Bewicks' flat about one o’clock. 

The bell rang with needless noise, as it 
appeared to her. No one came. She pressed 
the button for a longer time, and the sharp 
vibration echoed and re-echoed. Silence for 
a long while, and then the sound of a drag- 
ging step. A sallow, grey-haired man in a 
painter's blouse opened the door, and stood 
rubbing his forehead with the end of his 
brush. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


241 


“ Is Mrs. Bewick at home ? ” asked Susan. 

“No one ’s at home,” said the painter. 
“ This flat ’s to let — from the half-quarter.” 

“ I want to see Mrs. Bewick, who used to 
live here.” 

“ You ’d better see the housekeeper. She 
knows all about them,” replied the man. 
“ I ’m here for the company, cleaning up, and 
I ’m late as it is.” 

Susan hesitated. She wanted to go in to 
see the place again. 

“ I should like to come in for a minute,*' 
she said. 

The man stared and waited. Susan took 
out her purse, and went in. 

The rooms were bare, with clean patches 
on the walls where the furniture had stood. 
The windows were splashed with whitewash ; 
little heaps of rubbish stood in each room. 
On one lay a broken frame with a cracked 
and dirty glass. It had held a likeness of 
Susan. She recognised it at once. She 
walked from room to room, followed by the 
limping painter. In the drawing-room she 
remembered introducing Dugald Miller to 
Eyan Legard. Lucien’s music-room looked 
quite large. It was full of memories, and 
16 


242 


HER OWN DEVICES 


the dining-room — that had memories, too. 
Susan was fond of reminiscences. She sent 
the man away to get Mrs. Bewick’s address, 
and waited, recalling a recent past. 

“ Manor Lodge, Fairfield,” said Susan, read- 
ing the scrap of paper. Where ’s that ? ” 

“On the Brighton line, I think, miss. 
They ’d tell you at Victoria.” 

After a little waiting she got a train to 
Fairfield. There the sun was shining faintly, 
and the country was looking as if it was 
September. Susan found her way to Manor 
Lodge. The door was open ; some men were 
taking plants in from a van. Susan went in, 
trusting to meet a servant. There was no 
one about. She looked in a room on the 
right-hand, evidently the dining-room. No 
one was there. The room opposite was 
empty, too. She went along the passage, 
and turned into another room. It looked 
on the garden. 

Near the glass-house there was a group of 
people, some men with plants, Eose with 
gauntlets and a trowel, Eyan talking to a 
tall, pale lady with black hair, and Lucien, 
as unconsciously provoking as ever, reading 
the label on one of the shrubs. 


HER OWN DEVICES 


243 


Susan watched them for some time. At 
last she went towards the bell, but turned 
sharply away. She left the house and went 
back to the station, tearing up two letters as 
she walked along. 










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